The Aphrodite Diary
by MichelleAppleby
Summary: 'Why is it so hard to find a decent guy' A young woman, Charley, comes up with a unique way to find answers to that question: To ask the Goddess of Love herself. But when Charley visits the Temple of Aphrodite she gets more than she bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: The Temple**

The day was heavy and grey.

The street was grey, the tarmac on the road dark grey, the pavement a mix of grey squares all glistening with the sheen of rain. Figures walked with hats or umbrellas or both, all grey, hunched, miserable. Only the shop windows were bright, carousels of colour in the gloom, and past them walked a girl. Well ... a woman of twenty-five, although she had the air of a girl—slim figure, medium height, blond curly hair flowing out from beneath her dark, woolly hat, the sound of her boots clopping on the pavement. She disappeared briefly into one of the bright shops and emerged with her square black bag a little heavier than when she entered. She crossed the road, avoiding a male cyclist who whistled at her, and walked, eyes fixed ahead, to a coffee house on the corner of the street. It was an oasis of orange and brown amidst the grey, its long street-facing windows like living paintings of people in warm, contented comfort, their coats and hats over the backs of their chairs or piled upon the window sills inside. The door was situated on the corner and its brass handle creaked as the girl opened it and entered.

Inside, the coffee house was warm, relaxed, a refuge from the heaviness outside. Light jazz floated in the air. A huge table made of rough-hewn, polished wood stretched all the way along the windows facing the street, surrounded by black chairs with steel legs, half of them filled with customers. There were also seats further into the café, but the girl had her eye on the great table as she walked to the counter. Her favourite spot at the farther end by the window was vacant. There was a guy working on a laptop nearby, but not too near.

She ordered her coffee, paid for it and took off her hat, scarf and coat as she waited for it. It was a latte, always a latte. When it was ready the girl carried it to her chosen spot and placed it reverently on the table. She shrugged off her bag and placed it on the window sill behind her, took off her coat and placed it next to her bag, then placed her scarf and her hat on her coat. The guy at the laptop glanced over, but the girl performed her operation in a way that ensured there would be no eye contact. Only when everything was in order did she turn her attention to the coffee.

She took a sip. The latte felt creamy, hot, expensive but perfect. She smiled in sheer pleasure, eyes closing. She seemed to be forcing herself to wait, to wait, to savour the moment ... and then she could wait no longer. She put down the coffee, opened her bag and took out her purchase.

It was a journal.

Its cover was deep burgundy, laced with gold. The girl ran her fingers over it, smiling at the feel of it. It was cool and not quite smooth. She opened it. There was the gentlest crackle and the pages lay open, slightly cream with faint grey lines. She ran her fingers over paper which was perfectly smooth, smooth as silk; it seemed to invite a pen to glide across it. An invitation she could not resist.

The girl found a pen in her bag. She clicked it on and opened the journal to the first page. She paused for a moment and then wrote:

Charlene's Journal

She frowned. She clearly did not like what she had written. She crossed out the name and wrote underneath it:

Charley's Journal

That was better. That felt right.

Charley turned over the first page and looked down at the second. She didn't want to do any more crossings-out if she could help it. She wanted to get this right, wanted to write something important. What was important to her? She considered for a moment and then she wrote, in block capitals:

WHY IS IT SO HARD TO FIND A DECENT MAN?

Charley put down the pen and took a sip of coffee, reading her simple sentence. She felt a longing inside of her, a deep ache, like an ocean wave you see building in the distance, far away at present, but rolling, inevitably, towards you. She turned and stared through the window. The grey people were rushing past, on foot or on bicycles. Cars and vans droned along, their headlights yellow, their tyres fogged in clouds of spray. Charley was enveloped by a comfortable melancholy. She sat, silent, for a long time.

The mood passed. Charley turned back to the table, looking for distraction. There were newspapers and magazines lying among the coffee cups. One caught her eye—not a newspaper itself, but a supplement, something on the arts. The cover story was about the Italian artist, Botichelli, and the accompanying picture was of his masterpiece, the 'Birth of Venus.' In the picture, Venus was a naked woman with flowing, reddish hair, one hand covering her breasts, the other held over her vagina. She stood upon a giant seashell on the ocean and cherubs blew her waving hair.

Charley looked at the picture, something bothering her about the name Venus. When Charley was a child, her mother had loved to tell her stories of the Greek myths and Charley grew to share her mother's opinion that the Greek gods were far superior to the Roman versions; that their identities had been stolen by a nation of conquerors over a nation of thinkers. Even the name Venus did not sound nearly as musical on the tongue as the goddess's true name:

'Aphrodite,' said Charley to herself.

She looked from the picture of the goddess to the question she had written in her journal and nearly laughed out loud. An idea had popped into her head, an impish, silly, playful idea. But there was a kind of logic to it as well. If there was _anyone_ who knew the answer to the question Charley had posed, wouldn't it be Aphrodite? Wasn't she the Goddess of Love? What if Charley were to ask her? Charley stared out the window wondering if she should do it. It seemed so childish.

'Oh, what the hell…'

Charley picked up her pen, turned to a clean page and began to write.

* * *

I'm in Ancient Greece.

I stand at the foot of a hill surrounded by cypress trees. It is a warm night and the sky is a deep shade of indigo with stars brightly shining. There is no moon; the whole scene is lit by starlight. The grass is dark blue, the trees even darker and the surrounding hills roll away into the distance, empty of houses. I hear the chirping of crickets and I smell the scent of cypress and orange blossoms. On the summit of the hill where I stand is a Greek temple with steps and pillars of white marble. I know this to be the temple of Aphrodite.

I walk up the hill towards the temple.

I wear a long white dress that reaches to just above my ankles. It is sleeveless and made of white cotton, but I am not cold. I do not wear shoes or sandals and the grass feels cool beneath my bare feet as I walk. A warm breeze blows on my face and ruffles my hair. I'm naked under the dress and my heart beats faster as I near the base of the temple steps.

The temple is not the Greek temple of today—a ruin of chipped and discoloured marble. It is complete, the pillars smooth and the marble glistens white in the starlight. It is quite a modest temple in size, nowhere near as huge as the Parthenon, but beautiful in its modesty which feels, somehow, appropriate. From between the pillars I see a faint orange glow. This place is not empty.

When I reach the steps, I pause on the grass and notice a few things about myself. My hair is long—instead of shoulder-length I feel it reach to halfway down my back. I wear no make-up and my fingernails have no varnish. However, I notice that the fingernail on the index finger of my left hand is cut short. I tore it in my kitchen a couple of days ago and had to cut it short, and it is also short here.

(Charley paused in her writing. What is the relevance of that? she thought. Don't judge, said an inner voice. Just write.)

I stand and look at my left hand and puzzle over my fingernail. Then I shrug and begin to climb the steps. I reach the top, walk through the columns and find myself in an kind of inner courtyard, rectangular, wider than it is long, and surrounded by white marbles pillars. It is lit by two iron braziers holding some kind of burning coal which gives a faint orange glow to the place. There is incense in the air; not sweet-smelling, but a richer, subtler scent that makes me think of Christmas. I walk across a mosaic floor that feels warm under my feet towards the pillars at the far side. Between the pillars hang heavy tapestries, each one depicting a scene from Greek mythology. There are seven in all and I stop a short distance before the one at the centre. The air is still and I hear the faint crackle of the coal as I look at a figure on the tapestry in the dim flickering light.

It is Perseus. He wears a warrior's helmet with a tall crest and holds a sword dripping blood in his left hand. Held aloft in his right hand is the head of the Medusa. Her mouth gapes hideously in death and the snakes she has for hair seem to move in the flickering light. As I gaze at this image, it ripples, is pulled aside and a woman steps out from behind the tapestry.

She stands before the tapestry like an actress before a theatre backdrop. She has long brown hair that looks almost black in the dim light. I can't tell what colour her eyes are. She is slightly taller than me and wears a long white robe that hangs straight on her body. Her bare arms and feet are slender and graceful. I suddenly feel like an awkward little girl. I don't know whether this woman is a priestess or the goddess herself and I feel it would be impolite to ask. I try to smile.

'Hi,' I say.

'Hello, Charlene.'

I winced. My father called me Charlene after a TV actress he thought was beautiful. I thought she was a bimbo. I looked at the woman, wondering what to say. It didn't feel right just to blurt out my question.

'Nice place you have here,' I said, waving an arm. My voice echoed, magnifying my discomfort.

'Thank you,' said the woman. 'Would you like to see the rest of it?'

'Sure.'

'Very well. But first you must take off your dress.'

I stared at her, my mouth suddenly dry.

The woman tilted her head, seeming to wonder why I hesitated. She slipped off her robe and allowed it to fall to the floor, standing naked in a pool of white fabric. She had beautiful, full breasts and her hips and legs were curved and slim. Her skin seemed to glow in the light of the braziers and I caught the scent of almond cream. She opened her hands as if to say, see how simple it is?

'Is this really necessary?' I asked.

'Yes.'

'Why?'

The woman did not answer.

'I'm not taking anything off until I know why,' I said.

The woman walked towards me. I took an involuntary step back and forced myself to stand firm. Surely I wasn't afraid of a naked woman? But she was so confident in her nakedness; her eyes were clear and direct. She should have been awkward and vulnerable, but she was not and, shocked as I was, I realised that I envied her. She stopped within touching distance and I saw now that her eyes were green.

'Charlene,' she said. 'Right now, you are sat fully clothed in a coffee house writing out this whole encounter in a journal. I'm asking you to take off your dress in your imagination.'

'You can't say that!' I said.

'Take off that dress and we'll talk.'

'No!'

The woman looked at me and smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile.

'Interesting,' she said. 'You can't be naked even in the privacy of your own fantasy. No wonder you have problems with men.'

The woman turned, stooped to pick up her robe and walked back towards the Perseus tapestry.

'Where are you going?' I said.

'You're clearly not ready.'

'Wait! You can't just walk out! I'm writing you!'

The woman turned, gave me a look that said 'Oh really?' and disappeared behind the tapestry. I ran over, pulled it aside and...

* * *

Charley looked up from her writing. And what?

The temple had vanished from her mind. She glared down at the journal, her pen poised over the page, willing herself to write. To write what? Anything! This was her story! She could write what she wanted! But nothing would come. Charley shut the journal with a loud 'crack!' making the laptop guy jump.

'Sorry,' mumbled Charley.

She packed away the book and the pen. Frustrated, she put on her coat, scarf and hat and left as quickly as she could, bag slung over one shoulder. A few moments after she left the coffee house it began to rain.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Charlene**

Charley had what she considered to be an average life. When she spoke about it she would use the same two words: Can't Complain. Her parents weren't divorced. She got on well with her two younger siblings, a brother and a sister who were both still at college. Her childhood had been okay, her time at college uneventful and her job was reasonably challenging and reasonably well-paid. The closest thing to a crisis she had ever experienced was when her brother, Bryan, had told his family that he was gay. Her parents still had trouble accepting it, but they did their best and it was nowhere near the horror stories that Charley had heard about from her other gay friends.

There was one exception to Charley's Can't Complain attitude to her life—Men. There had been two serious relationships in her life, 'serious' being defined as a relationship that lasted longer than a year. Both had ended in disappointment and Charley referred to them as 'unmitigated disasters.' Her other 'relationships', for want of a better word, seemed to follow a pattern. She would meet a guy for several dates, things would look promising, they would sleep together, and then things would go nowhere, sometimes for weeks, before Charley would finish it. Sometimes the guy would be upset, but most of them were clearly relieved which somehow made it worse. She'd had three one-night stands and had promised herself, three times, never to do it again. They were all 'unmitigated disasters.'

At this moment in her life, Charley was twenty-five, working for an insurance firm and single. The only men in her life she felt close to were gay. (Apart from her father, although it was an affectionate relationship rather than a close one. Her father was not a man to show his emotions.) She'd had high hopes for a guy she's got together with a few months earlier, but this too had turned out to be another unmitigated disaster. She had felt too bruised to go near anyone since. (Bruised emotionally not physically. She wasn't **_that_** stupid.)

Also, at this precise moment in her life, Charley was sat at her favourite spot in her favourite coffee house, both hands cupped around a latte. She wore a sky blue jumper that matched her ear-rings and her eyes, and dark blue jeans that ended in brown boots. Her coat and bag were hung over the chair next to her, saving it for a girlfriend. Her own chair was turned to face the window and her feet rested on the low sill. She looked out onto the street and watched people rushing home from work. A small guy in a suit walked by. Then a drawn-looking woman holding the hand of a small boy. Then a fat guy with a baseball cap. A slim black girl walked past and Charley watched her. There was something about the walk—it was confident, determined and yet still feminine, still alluring. How did she manage that? wondered Charley.

Her mobile phone rang. It was a tune Charley thought cute and, not seeing that a curly-haired guy within earshot had rolled his eyes, Charley answered it. Her friend, Barbie, had to work late. She was really, really sorry, but she couldn't make it for coffee. Charley was not surprised—Barbie always seemed to attract problems and have to cancel. They talked for fifteen minutes and promised to make a new appointment. Charley said goodbye, clicked off the phone and then, without thinking, turned it off entirely. Her eyes flicked over at the curly-haired guy reading the newspaper on the other side of the communal table. Had she done it because of him? Had she felt his hostility? Who knows?

Who cares?

She took out the journal and sat reading what she had written before. She smiled as she read. What struck her was how independent the woman in the Greek temple was; as real as the 'character' of Charley herself. For instance, the woman insisted on calling her 'Charlene' and Charley had no idea why. How funny! I mean, how could a woman who came out of Charley's own mind know things that Charley didn't?

She would ask. She would go back to the temple and have another talk with the woman. Why not? Charley took out her pen, clicked it on and began to write.

* * *

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite.

It is a bright sunny afternoon. The temple looks different in daylight. It's still white and beautiful, but it doesn't look as mysterious as it did the first time. There is no orange glow visible from between the pillars. It is a plain white building set against a clear blue sky.

I wear the same clothes as I have on now—blue jumper, jeans, brown heeled boots. My hair is shoulder-length and my fingernails covered in clear varnish. The fingernail on my left hand is still shorter than the others. So be it.

I walk up the temple steps and ignore any feelings that I might be breaking the rules. My boots make an impressive noise on the marble, the sound of someone who means business. This is good. I reach the top of the steps and walk through the pillars into the inner courtyard.

The braziers are burning, still offering up their incense, but they shed very little light. Shafts of sunlight stream through the pillars and illuminate the courtyard although it is still dim in comparison to the daylight outside. I stand a moment and wait, allowing my eyes to adjust to the gloom. There is silence. I have the feeling I might be kept waiting for some time. I walk to the tapestry between the two columns on the left-hand side of the far wall.

The first tapestry is of Hercules fighting the Nemean lion. (I suppose I should say 'Heracles' if I want to be Greek, but 'Hercules' sounds better—a rare exception to the Greek-Roman fight for ownership of the mythology.) Hercules is portrayed as a naked, bearded man, heavily muscled, with both his hands around the lion's neck. Although the lion is larger than the man, I get the feeling that it never really stood a chance. Hercules is a demi-god, after all.

I walk along the row of tapestries, browsing. My boots echo in the courtyard as though I'm looking at tombs in a church. The next tapestry is of Oedipus facing the sphinx, followed by Theseus fighting the Minotaur, Perseus with the Medusa's head (Hello again!), Jason fighting the hydra, Bellerophon and flying horse, Pegasus, fighting the chimera and, lastly, Icarus falling to his death after flying with his man-made wings too close to the sun. I am puzzled by this last tapestry. All the others depict warriors against monsters. But Icarus was no warrior; he was a boy who didn't listen to his father. What is he doing amongst the heroes?

"It's to remind us that men also suffer for their lack of maturity," said a voice.

I turned. The pillars at the entrance cut the Greek countryside into brightly coloured rectangles and silhouetted against the brightness was a woman. She walked towards me, heeled boots echoing, but before she reached me I already knew who she was. I recognised her walk.

It was the black woman who had walked past the window of the coffee house.

"What are **_you_** doing here?" I said, surprised.

"I've come to talk with you," said the woman. She stood within arm's reach, a beautiful woman of about my age with a light brown face and black hair tied back like an Egyptian princess. Her eyes were dark and almond-shaped, slightly tilted up at the corners.

"Were you sent by Aphrodite?" I said.

"In a manner of speaking."

This was a bit mysterious, I thought.

"Are you Aphrodite?" I whispered.

The woman laughed, her teeth bright and white in contrast to her face.

"You mean, in one of my 'guises'?" she said, amused.

"Well ... yes."

"Honey, we are **_all_** Aphrodite."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's take a walk."

She turned to go back the way she'd come and looked to me to follow her.

"Outside?" I said. "Aren't we going in there?"

I pointed to the row of tapestries.

"No," she said with finality.

They're not going to let me in, I thought. Why not? What's back there that's so special? And where's the **_other_** woman?

"Come on if you're coming," said the woman and walked her walk to the outside world. I had to scamper to catch up. I was uncomfortably aware that my boots made a girlish sound compared to her firm tread. I was glad to get down the steps and onto the grass where our boots made no noise.

Walking down the hill with the sun on my face, I felt my mood lighten. This wasn't so bad. The woman next to me was dressed in jeans and a burgundy jumper with a pattern of dark blue and white. It suited her. So did the silver hoops that hung from her ears. I would never have had the nerve to wear something that eye-catching.

"So, what's your name?" I said.

"Charlene," said the woman.

"Oh great! Just to confuse things!"

"No it won't. You call yourself Charley, don't you?"

I looked at her as we walked. Did she say that with a sneer? I wasn't sure, but it put me off trying to make conversation. We walked into the trees at the base of the hill and after a while it opened out onto a lake of clear, blue water. Charlene went to the edge and sat on the grass. She unzipped her boots and slid them off.

"Do we have to strip off before you'll talk to me?" I said.

"I want to put my feet in the water," said Charlene. "You do what you like."

She took off her socks and jeans. She was wearing a white string that showed off her hips and thighs. Her legs were the colour of milk chocolate and her feet were slender. I bet guys never leave her alone, I thought. She sat near the lake's edge and dipped her feet in the water.

"Aah," she said. "That feels great."

The look of bliss on her face was so apparent that I could feel it myself. To hell with it! I followed suit, taking off my boots and socks and rolled up my trouser legs rather than taking them off. We sat, side by side, our feet in the water. It felt wonderful and cool. I gazed across the sparkling lake and watched an eagle in the distance diving for a fish.

"So, Charley," said Charlene. "Wanna talk?"

"What about?"

"Whatever you like."

I pondered this, gently kicking my feet.

"Why are you here?" I asked.

"Same reason as yourself," said Charlene. She raised one foot and watched the water dripple off it in the way a child might. "I wanted certain answers and I knew Aphrodite had them. She **_knows_**, you know what I mean? And I wanted that knowledge."

"Did you have to strip naked to find out?"

"Yep!"

I felt my face redden and my stomach turned.

"Did you really have to demean yourself to get those answers?" I said.

"It depends what you mean by 'demean'." Charlene looked at me, her dark eyes calm. "What do you consider demeaning?"

"D'you want a list?"

Charlene laughed without humour.

"All right, let me put it another way," she said. "If I were to tell you that part of my process involved getting fucked senseless, would you consider that demeaning?"

"Yes!" I said instantly.

Charlene looked back over the lake and nodded thoughtfully.

"Interesting," she said.

"Don't you?" I said, amazed and a bit sickened.

"No, honey," said Charlene, smiling. "Not any more."

I stared at the woman. What was wrong with her? Then the answer came to me.

"You must have met the right guy," I said.

"Not yet," said Charlene. "I mean, I haven't yet met the man I want to marry and have children with, if that's what you mean. But I have met, and loved, a few of what you would call decent men."

"Where did you find them?"

"You're surrounded by them, honey," she said. "You just have to look."

"I **_have _**looked!"

"But you have to look in the right way."

"And what way is that?"

"That's something you'll have to find out for yourself."

"For goodness sake!"

I swung my feet out of the water and stood up. I grabbed my boots and socks and went to sit down on the grass away from Charlene. She watched me as I pulled my boots back on and stood.

"Why are you so upset?" she asked.

"Because I don't like riddles!" I said. "And I didn't come here to listen to all this sex stuff either! I came to ask a simple question and all I want is a simple answer!"

"Fine. Fire away!"

I looked at Charlene, sitting relaxed, her feet still in the water. It upset me that she was so unaffected by my anger.

"Come on!" said Charlene. "Ask your question!"

"All right!" I said. Let her solve **_this_** one! "Why is it so hard to find a decent man?"

"That's easy," said Charlene. "A decent man wants to be with a decent woman. And, right now, you fall well short of the mark."

I stared at her, gobsmacked. How dare she! How fucking **_dare_** she!

"I'm not a decent woman?" I said, as though not comprehending.

"No."

"What am I then?"

"You're a girl who plays at being a woman. You've got the clothes, the job, the hairstyle, the attitude and you're looking for a man to complete the picture. But because you don't know what being a woman is all about, you only pick men who don't know what being a man is all about."

I stared at her. I paced around in a circle, my anger growing. Then I turned and stared at her again.

"Who do you think you are?" I said. "Who the **_fuck_** do you think you are to say that to me?"

"You should know. You chose me."

"I **_chose_** you?"

"YES!" Charlene jumped to her feet and her dark eyes blazed. "When I walked past the window in the coffee house, you could see by my walk, by my **_walk_**, that I knew something you didn't! And I'm trying to share what I know and you act as though I'm attacking you!"

"You **_are_** attacking me!"

"I'm telling you the truth! Look at yourself, Charley! You're a lonely, miserable, woman and it's killing you!"

"I don't have to take this!" I said and turned.

"Fine!" Charlene's voice echoed across the lake. "Go back to your world! Back to a world where every man is a disappointment! And don't worry about being demeaned because, before you know it, your face will grow lines and your pussy will dry up and no man will want to see your naked body anyway!"

* * *

"Are you all right, darling?"

The curly-haired guy had put down his newspaper and looked at Charley, concerned. She was crying. She sat in front of her open journal, a pen in her hand, and tears ran down her face. She couldn't stop herself.

"I'm ... all right," she said, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. "I was just ... writing a story."

"Is it a tragedy?"

The guy was trying to make a joke, but it caught Charley by surprise and suddenly she sobbed. Instead of streaming down her face, the tears fell like raindrops onto the table. A woman sitting nearby moved quickly next to her and put her arm around Charley's shoulder and Charley cried into her jumper, trying to apologise. The guy looked horror-struck and moved away, afraid he would be blamed. The woman comforted Charley and, after a while, Charley felt the storm pass and she nodded to the woman that she was all right.

"Are you sure, darling?" said the woman.

"Yes," Charley nodded. "Thank you."

The woman smiled and moved back to her seat. Charley took out a tissue and wiped her face. She looked back at her writing. It was only words, she told herself. Only words.

Sure.

The curly-haired guy reappeared wearing his jacket, scarf and baseball cap; ready to leave. He held a cup of something topped with whipped cream.

"It's hot chocolate," he said. "I thought it might cheer you up."

Charley was speechless. The small, scratchy voice in her head said, 'What does he want from you?' She tried to think of a way to refuse. The guy sensed her hesitation and grew nervous. He put the cup on the table in front of her.

"Well, it always cheers me up," he said. He coughed, nodded to her, pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and left. Charley stared at the glass cup. A drop of cream broke away from the general blob and ran down the side, white against the brown. Amid the noise she heard the distinctive creak of the door handle as the guy left.

Damn.

Charley jumped up, scrambled over the chairs around the big table and raced to the door. She went outside and looked around, the cold already biting into her. The guy had crossed the road and was walking away down the street. Charley ran after him.

"Hey! Excuse me!" she called as she ran.

He turned and stopped. His look was wary.

"I'm sorry," said Charley. "I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that ... well, sometimes ..." She stopped. Why babble on trying to explain? "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for the hot chocolate. I really appreciate it."

"No problem," said the guy. "I hope you feel better."

"Thanks."

Charley nodded goodbye and went back to her place. She quickly glanced over her stuff to check it was all there. Then she sat and sipped the hot chocolate, allowing it to warm her. She looked down at her journal. Something told her she wasn't yet finished.

She put down the hot chocolate, picked up the pen and began to write.

* * *

"Are you all right, honey?"

Charlene and I stand on the grass before the steps of the temple. Night has fallen and the crickets are chirping. We are both dressed in our modern clothes although Charlene also wears a coat—the coat she wore when I first saw her walk past the window. It is dark grey with a herring-bone design and looks good on her, but I can't bring myself to compliment her on it. I look her in the eyes and they seem very black in the darkness. I spoke.

"What you said ... It really hurt."

"Yeah, I know."

"But you did it anyway."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Charlene sighed. She looked tired. She gazed over my shoulder towards the temple.

"The temple does not welcome tourists," she said. "Serious work is done there. Sacred work. And if you decide to walk in there, you would be wise to take it seriously."

"Why?"

"Because you want what I've got," said Charlene. "You want what I've got."

* * *

Charley put down her pen.

The desire to write was spent. Charlene's face, so clear in her mind a moment earlier, had vanished. Charley closed the journal and turned her chair to face the window onto the street. The coffee house was due to shut in fifteen minutes and Charley spent those minutes with her feet on the window sill, drinking a hot chocolate and watching the world go by.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: The First Chamber**

It was five o'clock and already dark.

Charley left the office where she worked and walked past the other insurance buildings and tax offices, her long coat flapping around her legs. She reached the shopping centre during late night opening—streets full of shoppers—but Charley walked through in the direction of home. Passing her favourite coffee house, she glanced in. The place was nearly empty, unusual for a shopping night, and her favourite spot was vacant. She had intended to go straight home, but...

'Ah, what the hell!' she said to herself.

She went to the door and pushed down the handle. It creaked.

'Hello, Charles!' said a breathless voice from behind. Her hand on the door handle, Charley turned. Only one person called her 'Charles.'

'Hello, Barbie,' said Charley.

Barbie was short and curvy with bubbly brown hair that blew all over the place. She wore a puffy brown bomber jacket, woolly white scarf, short tight skirt and high heels. Her chubby legs were bare, the skin a shade of blue. Charley saw a couple of guys on the far side of the street nudge each other as they walked, their eyes flickering over to look at Barbie's legs.

'Come on, I'm freezing!' said Barbie. 'Aren't we going in?'

Charley forced herself not to sigh as they entered and stood waiting for the barista to come out from under the counter. Barbie looked into her fluffy pink purse and groaned.

'Oh shit, I have to go to the bank,' she said.

'I'll get this,' said Charley.

'Oh, would you?'

Charley paid for the coffees and led Barbie away from the big table to the cushioned seats in the far corner. The seats and backrests looked like large slabs of chocolate and small round tables were spaced along them. Barbie put her cappuccino onto a table and went across to the square counter in the centre where the packets of sugar were dispensed. Her stilettos clicked on the wooden floor and Charley saw a hard-faced woman in a black polo-neck jumper look at Barbie in disapproval. Charley cringed and drank some coffee.

Charley and Barbie had studied at the same college and following graduation they had both moved to the same city to find work. In those days Barbie was the only friend Charley had and she had been grateful. But after two years, things had moved on and as Charley sat pretending to listen to Barbie talk about the latest drama in her life she wondered whether their friendship has been based only on shared circumstances. Barbie was a sweet, wonderful soul, but they were so different. If Barbie wasn't always phoning her they would have lost touch ages ago.

After half an hour, Charley made it clear she wanted to leave. Barbie made a big show of wrapping her scarf around her neck as though this would somehow compensate for exposing her legs to the elements. They went outside and paused on the street corner to say goodbye.

'Oh, Charles,' said Barbie. 'We're having a girl's night out tomorrow. D'you want to come?'

'Thanks, but no.'

'Come on! It'll be a laugh!'

'Barbie, I don't know those girls. And last time I got the feeling one of them didn't like me.'

'You mean Karen, don't you?'

'Yes.'

'Funny,' said Barbie, shaking her head. 'She was the one I thought you'd have a click with.'

'With Karen? What the hell made you think that?'

'Well, you're both man-haters! In my mind, I saw you two having a good old bitch session.'

Barbie said goodbye and breezed off, barely keeping her balance. Charley felt sick. She turned and walked quickly home. Slamming the apartment door shut, she took off her coat and threw it onto the couch then went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There was food, but nothing Charley wanted to eat. She slammed the fridge shut, went through the bead curtain and stood, staring down at the dining room table.

Home for Charley was a plain apartment that she had gone to great trouble to make cosy. She had painted the walls yellow in the living area with its couch, armchair and television at one end and dining table and chairs at the other. A plain wooden bookshelf filled with books stood near the dining table and there was a bead curtain across the entrance to the kitchen. During the day, the large window and glass balcony door looked out onto the apartment blocks opposite, but at night only the yellow lights in the windows were visible and when the curtains were drawn and the candles lit, the place would look okay.

Charley blinked and looked around. She half ran to where she'd dumped her bag and dug out her journal and pen. She went to sit at the table, switched on the nearby lamp, opened the journal, clicked on the pen and began to write.

* * *

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite at night.

'All right!' I shout. 'Have it your way!'

I pull off my clothes aggressively, part of me still protesting, and make a pile of them on the grass. Only when I am stripped down to my panties do I hesitate. My last line of defence. I force myself to take them off and burst out crying. Still sobbing, I climb the steps. I walk through the pillars and into the temple courtyard where the tapestries hang. The woman I met on my first visit stands between the two glowing braziers, waiting for me. She looks regal and beautiful with her dark hair and white robe. Her expression is neutral, betraying neither smugness nor sympathy. To her I'm business as usual, I suppose.

'All right!' I said, wiping my eyes dry with the heel of my hand. 'I took my clothes off, just like you wanted.'

'What I want is neither here nor there,' said the woman. 'What do _**you**_ want?'

'I don't know. To stop feeling like shit, mainly.'

'Well, that's a start.'

The woman lifted her hand, inviting me towards the first tapestry and whatever was behind it. I hesitated.

'Are you Aphrodite?' I asked.

'No,' said the woman. 'I'm one of Her priestesses.'

'There are others?'

'Yes. Shall we?'

'What's your name?'

The Priestess lowered her hand. She walked up to me and stood so close that I thought she was going to kiss me. I tried not to shrink back, but as she stood looking at me, my discomfort increased.

'Don't you know who I am?' she said.

I must have looked confused because I saw something harden in her green eyes. She stood still as though waiting for me to recognise her. But I didn't, I really didn't and eventually I shook my head. She looked away and sighed. When she looked back, the hardness was gone.

'It'll come to you,' she said and she took my hand and led me to the tapestry of Icarus. She pulled it aside and stepped back, allowing me to enter first.

Beyond the tapestry was a small chamber lit by a single brazier of glowing coal. The light was dim, intimate, and the scent of incense was strong. The walls were draped with curtains that hung to the floor and against one wall was a huge bed that flowed with cushions and a soft, dark cover. It took up half the floor space. As I stood staring at it, the Priestess walked past me and stood by the bed.

'What are we going to do?' I asked.

'Make love,' said the Priestess.

I half-expected this, but I was still shocked.

'Look,' I said, 'you're very beautiful and all that, but … um…'

'You're not a lesbian?'

'Yes. I mean, no! I mean, I'm not.'

The Priestess smiled. She went over to one wall and pulled the curtain aside, enough to reveal a full-length mirror.

'Take a look,' she said.

Puzzled, I went over. I looked in the mirror and ... oh my God! For a moment, I thought I was looking at my brother. I looked in the mirror and a naked man looked back in astonishment. I was a man!

'Holy shit!' I said, my voice deep and masculine.

I looked at my hands. They were a man's hands, all the fingernails short. Dark hair ran along my forearms; so much hair! A muscular, wide chest replaced my breasts and I felt strong shoulders and a firm stomach. I reached down between my legs—it was incredible! I had often wondered what it might be like to have a penis. I looked back at the mirror.

It was a man, but it was also me—the same blue eyes, the same nose, a slightly firmer jaw-line perhaps, but still recognisable as me. I looked at the Priestess in amazement.

'Surprise!' she said.

'How did you...?'

'No questions.'

The Priestess slipped off her robe and stood naked before me. I looked at her body, her gleaming skin, her breasts, the curve of her hips and how they led down to her vagina. I felt a rush of adrenaline pulse through my body and, oh lord, I was getting a hard-on!

'This is unbelievable!' I said.

'Just wait until you fuck me,' said the Priestess.

I'd always hated that word, but now it felt horny, sexy. It turned me on. I couldn't wait to get my hands on her. The Priestess came over and we kissed. I felt her hands on my body, cool and soft, felt her tongue in my mouth. My own hands seemed fascinated by her. I ran them down her smooth back, felt her buttocks and I slid one around her body to cup one of her breasts. It felt amazing and yet familiar. I'd felt my own breasts many times, but they never had this effect on me. Is this how my breasts felt to the men I'd been with? Is this what my own body does to them?

I felt the Priestess's cool hand gently touch my cock. I loved it and I wanted to be inside her. The desire was urgent, overwhelming—nothing else mattered. She broke away and climbed onto the bed, turning onto her back, opening her legs. I climbed on top of her, kissing her mouth, pushing my cock clumsily between her legs. She reached down and I felt her take my cock and place it within the entrance to her vagina. I swung my hips, pushing and pushing, feeling her open up, feeling my cock slide into her...

* * *

Charley stopped writing, her face red. She dropped the pen and almost ran to the bedroom. Within ten seconds, she was stripped naked and under the covers, the duvet cool on her skin. Her fingers moved fast and her mind whirled with the images of the chamber—the feeling of being a man, the feeling of having your cock inside a woman, feeling the tension build and build until...

Charley gasped as the final image climaxed in her mind. Her back arched, her muscles contracted and her body shuddered with the orgasm that screamed through her. She sank back onto the bed, her hair plastered across the pillow and she lay with her mouth open, gently panting. A full twenty minutes passed before she felt ready to move.

Charley got up, put on a bathrobe and went back to the living room. She lit some candles, turned off the main light and made herself a cup of tea before she sat back down to her writing.

* * *

I'm a man lying next to a beautiful woman, spent and satisfied. The glow from the brazier plays on the ceiling. I watch it blissfully.

'How are you feeling?' asked the Priestess.

'Wonderful,' I said. 'Absolutely wonderful.'

I turned my head and looked into her green eyes. Up close, I felt overwhelmed by their beauty. The way she looked at me, I felt like the most wonderful thing she'd ever seen. Wonderful. Full of wonder. Me. The Priestess smiled, seeming to read my thoughts. She kissed me and stroked my hair. Then she rose and went to pick up her robe. She put it on.

'Is that it?' I asked.

'What else is there?'

'I don't know.'

The Priestess smiled.

'I'll be back in a minute,' she said. She ducked through the tapestry, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I went back to gazing at the ceiling, my hand idly playing with my now-limp cock.

Oh, to be a man, I thought. To lie here in blissful peace, well fucked and well satisfied, and to not even think about being pregnant. I felt a sudden twinge of conscience. It was the first thought I'd had on the subject. Oh well, a bit late now. Besides, the woman was a Priestess of Aphrodite. She's probably protected by the goddess.

'And what if she's not?'

It was a sharp female voice and it made me jump. A girl had stepped in through the tapestry and was now glaring down at me. Automatically, I reached for a cushion and covered my privates. She stepped forward into the light.

It was Me.

It was me as a girl, dressed in jeans and a red and black striped sweater that made her look like an angry wasp. Her face was full of anger and contempt—even her hair seemed to crackle with it.

'What if she's pregnant?' she demanded.

'Oh, come on...'

'What if she's pregnant, _**Charley?**_'

Her voice was nasty, scornful. A few minutes before I had felt like I was the most wonderful thing in the world. Now I felt like a slug. I didn't like it. This wasn't fair.

'The Priestess is a grown woman,' I said. 'She offered herself to me!'

'And who are you to refuse, right?'

'Well, why not?'

'You're pathetic!'

'Look, what do you want me to say?' (Ye gods, how many men have said those exact words to me?)

'You men really _**are**_ all the same, aren't you?'

The girl walked to the other side of the bed and stared at herself in the mirror as though even the sight of me sickened her. I felt as though I was in an interrogation room with a cop who wanted to nail me, but couldn't through lack of evidence. So she's trying to get me to confess.

'I did nothing wrong,' I said.

'Sure you didn't.'

'She invited me.'

'Oh, so it's _**her**_ fault? Why, of course! How could I have missed it? You were just being generous, giving the poor woman what she needed!'

'Should I have refused? Is that what you're saying?'

'You should have taken responsibility!'

'How? What does that even look like?'

The girl glared down trying to bully me with her fury, but this time I looked straight back at her. I realised that, almost by accident, I'd stumbled upon a valid question and she didn't like it.

'Go on,' I said. 'Tell me what it was that I should have done.'

'You should have used a condom! Or at least asked if she was on birth control!'

'Understood. So as long as I use a condom, you approve of me fucking that woman? Or any woman who wants it?'

The girl's eyes glittered with rage. She clenched her jaw and swallowed and her hands were making fists.

'No, it's not the physical part that pisses you off, is it?' I said. 'You're mad about the other side, all the emotions that get thrown into the mix when you have sex.'

'We're talking about you!'

'We're talking about us!' I rubbed the back of my neck. 'I know what you know. I _**am**_ you.'

'Then you know what it's like to be fucked by a man. Not made love to. Fucked.' The girl sat on the bed next to me. 'He fucks you and lies next to you and while your heart and mind and body are swirling with hope and fear and guilt and longing and confusion and maybe even love, he just lies there feeling absolutely nothing—except maybe relief that he's managed to blow his wad.' There were tears in the girl's eyes as she stared into mine. 'And you're telling me you have no responsibility for _**that?**_' she said.

I closed my eyes. I kept them closed for what felt like a long time. Then I felt a hand rest gently on my shoulder. I opened my eyes.

The Priestess looked down at me. I was sat on the bed, fully clothed, wearing a red and black striped sweater. The man on the bed had disappeared.

'Are you done?' said the Priestess.

'Yes,' I said. 'I'm done.'

I got up and left the temple. Walking down the steps, I breathed in the scent of wet grass. On the horizon, the sun was beginning to rise.

* * *

Charley put down her pen and rubbed her face. It was evening here. The half full cup of tea had gone cold.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: The Second Chamber**

On Sunday the coffee house on the corner opened at nine o'clock and Charley was there at five minutes past. It would become crowded later and she wanted her favourite spot for at least an hour of relative peace. It was wonderful to have that big table all to herself and for a while Charley simply sat and drank her coffee. Then people started to drift in and Charley opened her journal, clicked on her pen and began to write.

* * *

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite.

It is night and there is an orange glow from behind the white marble pillars, but I am no longer afraid. My hair is long, I wear a simple white cotton dress and I am naked underneath. It would be a lie to say I was comfortable with this, but the discomfort is much less than it was. I climb the steps and enter the temple.

The Priestess waits for me in the courtyard. As before she shows neither pleasure nor weariness at seeing me. It's hard to believe we made love the last time we met and I still feel bad about that. She turns, intending to lead me towards the second chamber behind the tapestry of Bellerophon and the Chimera.

'Just a moment,' I said.

The Priestess turned back and waited, her expression neutral, as I tried to collect my thoughts.

'About last time. There's something I want to say.'

'I'm sure there is,' said the Priestess. 'I've no interest in hearing it, by the way, but go ahead.'

My apology died in my throat, quickly replaced by a host of angry comebacks. But as I glared at the Priestess I realised that none of them would affect her. She would just stand there while I hurled abuse, patiently waiting for me to run out of things to say.

'Forget it,' I said. 'It wasn't important anyway. Well, not to you…'

I stopped, holding my breath to keep my goddamn mouth from talking any more and stared at the floor. I could feel the Priestess waiting for me to pull myself together and I hated her for it. It seemed to take ages.

'You care too much what I think,' she said.

'Shouldn't I?'

'Of course not.' She approached the tapestry and pushed it aside. 'Shall we?'

I went across, ducked in through the entrance and found myself standing in the second chamber. It was larger than the first and appeared to be some kind of exercise room—the first object I saw was a heavy medicine ball on the white matting that covered the floor. The ball was handmade, round but lumpy, the stitching light against the dark leather. Four braziers stood in the corners of the room, each burning coal that gave off white, not orange, light. There was the musky smell of fresh sweat in the air. Two wooden exercise benches stood in the centre of the room and crude barbells littered one area. Lying on one of the benches was a black man lifting weights into the air. Apart from a towel around his waist, he was naked.

'I'll leave you to get to know each other,' said the Priestess, turning to leave.

'Wait!' I said. 'Does that mean what I think it means?'

The Priestess gave me a look that for the first time betrayed some emotion. She left the chamber almost immediately, but that look stayed with me like the after-image of a light when you stare at it for too long. I felt as though I had insulted her in some way. I turned to watch the man.

I had to admit he had a gorgeous body. His muscles were large but not grotesque and his dark skin cut clear lines on his torso making his body look like a well-oiled machine. Everything about him spoke of strength and virility—even his elegant feet seemed to grip the floor with power. Seeming oblivious to my presence, he dropped the weights onto the floor and stood, stretching his arms. There was no hair on his body and his scalp was shaved bald. His whole head glistened with sweat and he casually pulled off his towel to wipe it, revealing a thick, dark penis. I let out a gasp. He looked at me and smiled, shiny white teeth in a dark face. One of his front teeth was chipped.

'How y'doing?' he said in a deep voice.

I didn't know where to look.

'Fine, I guess.'

I looked over at a mirror on a side wall and I caught his reflection. I saw him shake his head and wrap the towel back around his waist.

'I suppose I ought to apologise,' he said.

'It was an accident,' I said. 'You didn't know I was here.'

'What if I did?'

'Well … that would be different.'

The man pulled the towel at his waist and looked in. His expression was sad. 'You poor little penis,' he said. 'Having to apologise for your existence.'

'That's not what I meant!' I said.

'What do you want, lady?'

There was a weariness in his voice I didn't like, as though I was being offended just to be tiresome.

'What do you mean?' I said.

'It's not a trick question, y'know. What do you want?'

'Well, I don't want sex if that's what you're driving at!'

'I wasn't.'

'Yeah, right.'

'You don't believe me?'

'A man shows me his dick and I'm supposed to believe he doesn't want sex? What do you think?'

The man looked at me, considering. I felt he was judging me and it took all of my willpower not to look away. I didn't want him to see that it mattered. Why should it? I didn't even know him.

'Have a seat,' he said, waving at the second bench. He stood by his own bench and I reluctantly went over and sat, making sure my white dress covered my knees. He sat across from me, his legs splayed wide, and he adjusted his towel so that it covered what was between them.

'What did the Priestess tell you?' he said.

'That we were supposed to "get to know" each other.'

'Okay,' he said, ignoring the sarcasm. He looked at me as though expecting a response.

'Okay what?' I said.

'Okay, let's get to know each other.'

I sighed and rubbed my face.

'Look,' I said, 'it doesn't work like that.'

'What are you on about?'

'You can't expect me to open up just by saying "Let's get to know each other" and you certainly can't expect me to have sex with you after just one conversation!'

'Who said anything about sex?'

'Oh, come on! That's what this whole place is about, isn't it? That's why we're both virtually naked! We're supposed to "Get it on," right?' I stood and shouted up at the temple. 'Well, it's not going to happen! I'm not doing it, do you hear?'

'You have no idea what's going on,' said the man.

'Oh, I think I do!' I said glaring down at him. 'I was supposed to come in here and see you—big, muscular black man; every woman's fantasy, right? And I was supposed to melt into a pool of girly lust and get shagged into womanhood! That's how it works, isn't it? A woman isn't a Real Woman until she's had a nice, big cock between her legs, right?'

The man stood.

'You haven't learnt anything, have you?' he said.

'How the fuck would you know?'

'Because you were coming out with this shit the last time we spoke.'

'What are you talking about? What last time?'

'Down by the lake, while I was bathing my feet in the water.'

I stared at him. I stared into his eyes, dark almond shaped eyes tilted slightly up at the corners.

'Oh, my God,' I whispered. 'Charlene?'

The man turned to look at the mirror. I turned to it as well and saw Charlene glaring back at me. She wore the long white robe of a priestess, her hair piled elegantly on her head and her eyes dark with contempt. She stepped forwards out of view and I turned to see the man approach me, that same contempt in his look.

'The Priestess left us to get to know each other,' he said. 'That's what she said and that's what she meant. But you, Charley … you've turned it into a farce. If you had made even the smallest attempt to get to know me, you would have realised who I was.

'But you didn't. Instead you came in here with all your negative opinions about sex and you didn't let them go for one second—it was all you talked about and it was all you saw. And you had the gall to say that it was what the _temple_ was all about!'

The man shook his head and stepped past. I grabbed his hand.

'Charlene! I didn't know!'

'Of course you didn't know! That was the whole point!' The man looked at me with narrowed eyes. 'But you acted like you did. You go into a situation with a man thinking you already know who he is. And you don't, Charley. You really don't.'

The man left the chamber, throwing the tapestry aside as he went. It fell back into place and I stood alone in the room feeling utterly miserable. I went over to the bench and sat down, waiting for the Priestess to tell me it was over. I waited a long time, but she never came.

* * *

Charley put down her pen.

The coffee house was packed out; people were even standing. She had hardly noticed. She saw the curly-haired guy who had bought her a hot chocolate a while ago. He was sitting on the corner bench talking with a mate. Taking care not to catch his eye, she packed away her things and left.

Outside, despite the cold, the sun was shining.

Later that day, Charley called Barbie and they went out for a few drinks and a pizza. They ended up at a club and for a while Charley lost herself in music and dancing. But then the guys started to move in and she left Barbie to it, making her excuses and leaving. She went to work the next day with a mild hangover.

Later that week, Charley was sat in the coffee house in the evening, feet on the window ledge and coffee mug in her hands, staring out onto the street. The journal and pen lay on the table, but she had her back turned to them. She did not feel a strong desire to return to the temple.

'Looking for inspiration?'

Charley turned at the sound of the voice. A guy with dark, cropped hair and a chubby face had taken the seat opposite hers. The newspaper before him was still folded and he nodded towards her journal. Charley looked at the journal, then back at the guy.

'Actually, I was looking for some peace and quiet,' she said.

'Right.'

The guy opened the newspaper, his smile now tight.

'I'm sorry if that sounded harsh,' began Charley.

'I get the message,' said the guy without looking up. He stared intensely at the newsprint, frowned and then rose, gathering his things. 'I'll leave you to your peace and quiet,' he said and he went to sit on the padded benches on the other side of the coffee house.

Charley turned away and covered her face in her hands. Her eyes felt sore from tiredness. After a few deep breaths, she went back to staring out through the window, but even quiet melancholy now felt impossible. She packed her things away and left.

When Charley arrived in her apartment she made herself a quick meal. After eating, she cleaned the dishes and poured herself a glass of white wine from an already opened bottle from the fridge. 'Sour and cold,' thought Charley as she took her first mouthful. 'Appropriate.' She carried the wine glass to the dining table where her journal and pen were waiting. Sitting down, she took another sip, opened the journal, clicked on the pen and began to write.

* * *

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite.

It is night and there is an orange glow from behind the white marble pillars. I am wearing the white dress with nothing underneath. I don't feel afraid or even uncomfortable. I don't feel much of anything at all. Just tired. I sigh and begin to walk up the steps.

'Looking for inspiration?' said a voice.

I turned in surprise because I recognised it. The guy with the dark, cropped hair and chubby face stood on the grass. He was dressed exactly as I remembered him from the coffee house—jeans, checked shirt and blue sweater. His smile was tight.

'What are you doing here?' I asked.

'I want to know why you wouldn't talk to me,' he said.

'Because I didn't want to! I wanted to be left alone and that's exactly what I want now!'

I turned and ran up the rest of the steps. As I walked into the temple courtyard, I saw the Priestess leaning against one of the pillars at the front. She looked over at me and I saw by her expression that she had witnessed everything.

'Well, finally we have an answer,' she said.

'What do you mean?'

The Priestess walked towards me, her eyes picking up the orange glow of the braziers.

'When you approached the first chamber I asked: What do you want? And when you were in the second chamber, you were asked that same question.' The Priestess stood directly in front of me. 'Now, as you approach the third chamber, I finally hear an answer: You want to be left alone.'

'I was talking to that idiot down there!'

'How would you know he's an idiot?'

'All right, maybe he's an okay guy, but I wasn't in the mood to talk to him! Am I supposed to talk to every man who tries to chat me up?'

'You'd learn a lot more about men if you did.'

I threw up my hands and walked away. This was impossible. I found myself across the courtyard facing the tapestry that hung across the entrance to the second chamber. I thought back to my encounter with the black man who turned out to be Charlene.

'I screwed up, didn't I?' I said. My voice echoed across the hall.

'Not if your deepest wish is to be left alone.'

I put my hands on my hips and looked down at the floor, my long hair covering my face. I felt tears sting my eyes and I didn't want that bitch to see. But the desire to cry was strong and I had to fight to contain it. As I did, I felt soft hands take my shoulders and gently turn me around. It was the physical warmth that surprised me—the Priestess was always so cool, so distant. I hadn't expected her to feel warm and, as she pulled me into a hug, I couldn't contain myself any longer. I started to cry.

_[Charley put down the pen and turned away. Tears were dropping from her face onto the page making dark splotches. She hugged her stomach and heard herself murmur, 'I don't want to be alone' which made her cry even more. It was a few minutes before she felt ready to continue. Taking a moment to fetch the last of the white wine from the fridge, she took a deep breath and picked up the pen.]_

I wiped my face and looked up at the Priestess. She smiled and pushed my long hair back from my face.

'You silly girl,' she said. 'You're making this more difficult than it needs to be. You do know that, don't you?'

'No,' I said. 'I really don't think I do.'

The Priestess sighed and nodded. She pushed a strand of my hair back behind my ear and said in a soft voice: 'Tell me what you want.'

'I don't want to be lonely anymore.'

'I know that, my dear. I know what you don't want.' She took my hands and squeezed them. 'Now tell me what you do want.'

I looked into her green eyes and found myself wondering how I could ever have seen this woman as cool and distant. She looked at me like I was someone amazing and wonderful and, suddenly, I knew what I wanted from her.

'Teach me how to love,' I said.

The Priestess gazed at me. She pulled me into an embrace, her arms firm around my body and my face enveloped by her fragrant hair. 'My darling Charlene,' said the Priestess. 'You have no idea how happy you've just made me. How much this means to me.'

She pulled back to look at me. Tears were streaming down her face. _Streaming._ I was shocked. Hesitantly, she opened her mouth and her voice shook as she spoke:

'You have absolutely no idea.'

* * *

Charley stopped writing. She clicked off the pen and closed the book. Taking the wine glass, she went to the couch and sat down. She finished the wine and stared at the wall, the image of the Priestess in tears still clear in her imagination. It was the face of a woman who had been deeply, deeply moved. And she had been right.

Charley had absolutely no idea why.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: The Third Chamber**

It was a cold, bright Saturday morning. The sky was blue, the air was fresh and as Charley stepped out of her home her spirits were high. She found herself smiling at passers-by as she walked to her favourite coffee house, the journal and pen safe in her bag. She was excited because she had a date with the Priestess—she couldn't stop thinking about the promise to teach her how to love. In truth, Charley had been saving herself all week for this.

She arrived at the coffee house, the brass handle creaking as she opened the door to enter. As usual for this time in the morning, the place was almost empty and her favourite spot by the window ledge was free. Charley went to stand behind a tall man waiting at the counter.

Someone else came in behind her, the door handle creaking. The man at the counter turned his head at the sound and made brief eye contact with Charley. His eyes were grey, lined and his dark hair was flecked with silver above his ears.

'When was the last time somebody oiled that door handle?' he said.

'No idea,' said Charley.

'Don't you have any oil in that bag?'

'What would I be doing with oil?'

'I don't know. You just look like the type.'

The man turned his back and Charley had the feeling she had been dismissed. It irritated her. She hated it when men referred to her as a 'type.' She was tempted to say something, but she knew from experience that opening a conversation with a man was an invitation to be chatted up and she wanted to write.

Charley studied the display of expensive chocolate brownies and cookies that she never, ever bought. The man paid for his coffee and to her chagrin went to sit in the neighbourhood of her favourite spot. He was on the opposite side of the table facing the window and not even directly opposite, but it still felt too close for comfort. 'Oh, come on, Charley!' said an internal voice. 'Are you going to let some guy determine where you sit?'

Charley paid for her latte and took her place in her favourite spot out of sheer stubbornness. After a while, she felt silly for having worried about the man. He was absorbed in a paperback book, his body turned away from her, one leg crossed over the other. Charley opened her journal, placed her pen beside it and sipped her latte, thinking about where to start.

'Shouldn't you be staring out the window?' said the man.

'Pardon?'

'Writers get inspiration by staring out the window. I should know.'

'Why? Are you a writer?'

'Not published, but … yes. And you?'

'Not published, but … sort of.'

'Sort of is good.' The man shrugged with a silent laugh as though enjoying a private joke.

'What?' said Charley.

'It's just curious,' said the man. 'That book is a journal, but it's clear you're not journalling.'

'Oh? How can you tell?'

'Because the book is open, but the pen is not in your hand. People who journal tend to hold their pens, ready to write as soon as they've collected their thoughts. But leaving your pen by the side suggests you want to get an image clear in your mind before writing and that would suggest a story.'

'Hmm.'

'Am I right?'

'Sort of.'

The man laughed.

'Okay, that one deserves two points,' he said.

'Only two?'

'I would have given you four points if you'd fixed the door handle, but seeing as you didn't … you'll just have to make do with two.'

Charley smiled in spite of herself. This was an absurd conversation.

'I tell you what,' said the man, lifting up his book. 'If your story is as good as this one, I'll give you a hundred points.'

'Wow,' said Charley. 'That's a lot of points. But I'm not into writing a novel.'

'It's a collection of short stories,' said the man. 'Although the best ones are not really stories. It's more like the author is exploring an idea in the form of a story. Does that make sense?'

'Yes,' said Charley. 'Yes, it does.'

She looked at the book's cover with more interest. It was called 'The Lonely Sky' and there was a picture of a solitary building near a windswept beach in winter. Charley had never heard of it.

'What sort of ideas does it explore?' asked Charley.

'Well, take the title story,' said the man. 'It's about a married man, a magazine writer, who takes a trip away from his family for a few days to write an important piece. He drives to the coast and arrives at a hotel in a seaside town which is almost deserted because it's the middle of winter. Also staying at this hotel is a woman trying to get over the death of her husband. The two of them walk on a freezing cold beach, they talk and the man realises that there is something special about this woman; something that really speaks to him. Eventually, after too many drinks in the hotel bar, she tells him that the reason she is so cut up by her husband's death is not because she missed him, but because she was secretly glad he was dead. She realised that she had been seduced by the comfort and prestige of being this man's wife and she had kidded herself that she loved him because she was afraid of losing what everyone told her was a great catch. But after he died and all the money and property was hers, she realised that it meant nothing—that she had somehow betrayed her soul and wasted a big chunk of her life. And what was worse, she had deprived a good man of a wife who might truly have loved him.'

The man touched the cover of the book, his face serious.

'What happens?' asked Charley.

'They realise they're falling in love with each other and the woman invites the man into her bed. But she insists on one night. She doesn't want him to leave his family, she doesn't ask him to be with her or anything like that. She doesn't want to ruin the life of another man, yet she wants to make love to him.'

'And do they?'

'No. He turns her down. And as he drives home in the car, he realises that he has, in his own way, betrayed his soul and wasted his life. That he doesn't love his wife or his role as a family man as much as he tells himself he does; that his image of himself as a decent man is based on a lie. But he cannot let it go. Not even for one night.'

'He chooses the lie.'

'Yes. He chooses the lie.'

The two of them sat in silence, each deep in their own thoughts. Then Charley closed her journal.

'I don't think I'll be earning any more points today,' said Charley.

The man turned his book face down on the table and closed his eyes. 'I am so sorry,' he said. 'You came here to write and I've gone and…'

'Hey! I loved your story. Don't apologise for telling me a good story.'

The man looked at her, studying her expression.

'At least let me buy you a coffee,' he said.

'I've still got half a latte.'

'Then one of those overpriced brownies? Come on, let me buy my way out of guilt!'

Charley laughed.

'All right,' she said. 'Whatever's the most expensive.'

The man smiled. His face had lines, but it was a really nice smile. He stood to go to the counter, then turned and offered his hand to shake across the table.

'By the way,' he said. 'My name's John.'

* * *

I run up the steps towards the temple of Aphrodite.

The sun has just set. Although it's dark, I can still see the faint glow on the horizon. I am breathless as though I have been running for quite a while and I'm wearing a black fluffy jumper, black trousers and black zip-up boots—the same clothes I have on now. I didn't even stop to change. I'm impatient and I race into the courtyard with the braziers. It's empty. I don't have time to mess around.

'Hello?' I call out. My voice echoes in the temple.

'Just a minute!'

The voice came from behind the central tapestry of Perseus and the Medusa. I walk up to it and hesitate, unwilling to enter. I don't have to wait long. The tapestry is pulled aside and the Priestess steps through. I gasp.

The Priestess is still dressed in white, but it's no longer a gown. She wears white jeans and a white blouse with billowed sleeves, set off with a coloured waistcoat, a tan leather belt and brown heeled boots. The ensemble is finished off with a turquoise beret that compliments the green of her eyes.

'You look … spectacular!' I said, staring at her.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Are you ready for the third chamber?'

'Actually, I wanted to talk about something that happened this morning.'

'I know.'

The Priestess stepped across to the third tapestry and motioned for me to join her. I went over and glanced at it—Jason of the Argonauts fighting the many headed Hydra. The Priestess pulled the tapestry aside to reveal a door.

'You're kidding me!' I said.

It was a door I knew. It had a handle that creaked.

'After you,' said the Priestess.

We stepped through and entered my favourite coffee house. I stared around at the place as though we'd just stepped into Narnia. The big table, the counter, the customers reading and talking, they were all here. I looked out through the windows. There was no sign of the temple, the tapestries, the cypress trees. Outside was the street I knew so well, the street on a Saturday evening.

'Where's the temple?' I said.

'Do you still think the temple is a place?' said the Priestess.

I looked over at the big table and laughed out loud. There in my favourite spot … was Me. I sat with my back to the window, writing this scene with a look on my face as though I couldn't quite believe what I was writing.

'This is bizarre,' I said.

'You get the coffees,' said the Priestess. 'I'll get the seats.'

'What do you want?'

'A latte of course!'

The Priestess walked across to the corner where the benches against the walls intersected. I turned to the barista and ordered two lattes. I paid for them and when they were ready I took them over to where the Priestess sat waiting for me. We sat in companionable silence for awhile, enjoying our coffee.

'All right,' said the Priestess, putting her half full mug on the small table in front of us. 'To business.'

'Yes.'

'John.'

'Yes, John.' I held my own mug in my hands, comforted by the warmth. I wanted the Priestess to start the conversation, but she wasn't playing that game. She looked at me and waited. I shrugged and said, 'It's probably nothing…'

'Let's stick with the facts, shall we?'

'What do you mean?'

'Charlene, please tell me you know what a fact is?'

'Of course I know!' She was starting to piss me off. 'You want facts? Okay! I met a guy. We hit it off. I gave him my number.'

'There you go. That wasn't so hard, was it?'

'But what does it mean?'

The Priestess let out a deep sigh and picked up her mug to take a drink. I got the feeling she was exercising patience, but I didn't know what I was doing wrong.

'Charlene,' she said at last. 'I want you to do something for me.'

'What?'

'For the next five minutes, I want to talk uninterrupted.'

'You mean you want me to listen?'

'That would be nice, but I'm not counting on it. For now, let's stick to you being quiet. Would you do that for me?'

I had to work hard not to say anything rude. I stared out through the window.

'Charlene?'

'Yes! Yes! I'm listening, all right? I'm listening!'

The Priestess put her mug back onto the small table and looked at me. I drank my coffee and looked back.

'Okay,' said the Priestess. 'Let's go back to basics. You asked me to teach you how to love. But the fact is: You already know.'

'If I knew, would I be…?'

'Good grief! Five minutes, not fives seconds! You can ask questions when I'm done!'

I could feel my face burning red. People had looked over at the outburst. I looked down into my coffee mug, forcing myself not to speak and flexing my shoulders like a cat trying to get comfortable. The Priestess waited for me to be still before she continued.

'You were born knowing how to love,' she said. 'When you were a baby, you laughed when you felt love and you cried when you felt scared. It was all very simple. But as you grew up, you absorbed other ideas—from your parents, from school, from TV and books and from the world generally. Loving interaction between you and other people became more and more complicated because you had taken on board this idea that in order to be lovable, you had to 'do' something. But do what? That is the question that obsesses the culture you were born into and everybody in it has an opinion on it. Whole books are written about it.

'But the fact is: You don't need to 'do' anything. You need to stop 'doing' and simply allow your innate ability to love to come up to the surface. If you can do that, the situations you find yourself in will take care of themselves.'

My mouth was twitching. The Priestess smiled.

'Go on,' she said. 'Say it.'

'How?!'

'That is what I intend to show you.' The Priestess looked over at the other Me who sat writing at the big table. 'You know, so far everything that's happened to you has happened inside your head. Even this conversation is something that you are writing in a journal. Meanwhile, real men have crossed your path and you have quickly judged them and pushed them away. I want that to stop. When the next man knocks on the door of your life, I want you to let go of your own agenda and to let him in.'

The Priestess looked at me and I swallowed.

'Are you talking about John?' I said.

'Yes,' said the Priestess.

'But…'

'I'm not asking you to sleep with him. I'm not asking you to get into a romance with him. I'm asking you to make a genuine effort to find out who he is. Will you do that?'

My mouth was dry, but I nodded. 'If he calls,' I added.

'Oh, he'll call.'

'How can you be so sure?'

The Priestess picked up her mug and finished the last of her coffee, taking her time. She put it down with a 'clack!' of finality, turned to me and gave me a huge smile.

'What?' I said.

* * *

Charley jumped as her mobile phone suddenly buzzed on the table. She picked it up and stared at the number on the screen.

'I don't believe it,' she said.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: John**

On Sunday Charley had dinner with John at a restaurant and one evening during the week she met him for a drink after work. They talked, they laughed and at the end of both evenings John said goodbye and patted her on the shoulder the way her father sometimes did. She had been relieved on the first occasion, but not so happy when he did it the second time. Still, when he sent a text message suggesting dinner at his place on Saturday, Charley had replied yes.

The week passed and Saturday morning had arrived. The young barista opening the coffee house at nine in the morning had his usual hangover from the night before. He pulled the ring of keys out of the keyhole and opened the door, wincing at the scraping creak of the brass handle.

'Heavy night?' said Charley, who had arrived at nine on the dot.

'Haven't had my first coffee,' said the barista, holding the door open for her.

'Me neither.'

'A purist would say that a latte is coffee-flavoured milk.'

'Are you a purist?'

'Not at this time in the morning.' The barista went behind the counter. 'Take a seat. I'll bring it to you.'

'Thank you.'

Charley went to her favourite spot and settled herself in. She opened the journal and placed the pen next to it, ready to write. The barista came over with her coffee and Charley spent a few moments enjoying it as she stared out through the window. She sat sideways, one leg crossed over the other, her elbow on the table. She toyed with the pen, clicking it in and out.

'What am I doing?' she said.

* * *

'What am I _doing?_'

'Panicking.'

I glared at the Priestess. She sat next to me in her white outfit with the boots and stared out through the window. She gave a relaxed sigh and took another sip of her latte.

'I'm having dinner with John,' I said.

'I know.'

'Tonight! At his place!'

'I know that too.'

'What am I doing? He's married!'

'But separated from his wife?'

'Exactly! He's on the rebound!'

'So?'

'What do you mean: _So?_'

'Are you planning to sleep with him?'

'No!'

'So you're just having dinner?'

'Yes!'

The Priestess shrugged.

'I fail to see the problem,' she said.

'He's a man! He's bound to want sex!'

'Of course.'

'So what do I do?'

'If he tries it on, you say no.'

I let out a burst of exasperation. The Priestess looked sideways at me, her eyes narrowed.

'Do you trust him to accept no as an answer?' she said.

'Yes, of course.'

'Are you double sure?'

'Yes!'

'All right.' The Priestess gave another shrug. 'Then I still fail to see the problem.'

I looked into my coffee cup, my hair falling over my face.

'I don't want to say no,' I said. '_That_ is the problem.'

There was silence between us. The Priestess turned back to the window, nodding to herself. Finally, she said:

'And there we have it.'

'What do you mean?'

The Priestess put her coffee mug onto the window ledge and pulled a piece of paper from a hip pocket. She opened it up and leaned across the table to take my pen. 'May I?' she said, the pen already in her hand. She studied the list and began to tick things off.

'What's that?' I said.

'It's your Mister Right checklist,' said the Priestess. 'Or rather, the one page summary. The actual document is much larger.'

I grabbed it out of her hand and read. It was awful, schoolgirl stuff. "Nice-looking, but not vain. Not too short. Must not have a stupid laugh."

'I never wrote this,' I said.

'Not in the physical world perhaps,' said the Priestess. 'But in _this_ world, the world inside your head, you have written list after list after list.'

I looked back at the paper, at the items the Priestess had marked. I cringed inwardly. "Too old." "Too much baggage." "Not someone I could introduce to my friends." These were all thoughts I'd had about John; about his suitability as a ... as a what? A boyfriend? A partner? A lover? Nothing seemed to fit. And I only met him a week ago; this whole thing was absurd.

'What should I do?' I said.

'Cancel the dinner and stop seeing him.'

'Are you serious?'

'Of course I'm serious,' said the Priestess. 'If you don't want this man, leave him alone. Let some other woman have him.'

'I don't want that!'

The Priestess looked at me. She stood and pushed her chair under the table. 'I'm not asking you to choose between John and Mister Right,' she said. 'I'm asking you to choose between an actual life experience and _this!_' She pulled the list from my hand and held it close to my face. Her point made, she handed it back.

'I thought you were going to tear it up,' I said.

'That's your job,' said the Priestess and she walked out of the coffee house.

* * *

It was lunchtime and Charley was in her kitchen trying to make a salad. She was chopping a cucumber, cursing herself for having forgotten to buy balsamic vinegar and cherry tomatoes. Then she ran out of cucumber to chop and realised she had only needed half of it.

'Fuck!'

She put down the knife and went into the living room. It was no good pretending she didn't know what the problem was—or the solution. She had to cancel. She simply wasn't ready for this no matter what the Priestess might say. The thought of calling Barbie crossed her mind. Charley shook her head at herself. She must be in a really bad way if she's starting to wonder if Barbie could help.

Charley picked up the phone and called John's number, pacing the floor. It rang five times before he picked up.

'Hey, you must be psychic!' he said. 'I was just going to call you.'

'Oh?' said Charley. 'What for?'

'Well, the restaurant hasn't confirmed our booking so I've been trying to…'

'John, I thought we were having dinner at your place?'

'Oh.' There was a pause. 'I have a horrible feeling you didn't get my text.'

Charley stopped pacing the floor. She stared out through her apartment window totally confused.

'What text?' she said.

'Look, my original idea was that I would cook for you,' said John. 'But then I remembered something you said that made me think it was not such a good idea.'

'What did I say?'

'It was more a feeling than anything specific. I remember you saying that respect was very important to you.'

'What's that got to do with you cooking a meal?'

'Well … inviting you to my house and then letting you hang around while I'm busy in the kitchen doesn't seem like a very nice way to treat someone, especially when we're just getting to know each other. In a restaurant, I can give you my full attention.'

'For God's sake, John, I'm not a schoolgirl who needs constant attention! Is that how you see me?'

'Of course not, but I've been told by other women that I have a tendency to project my own preferences onto them.'

'What preferences?'

'Listen, if I were standing in someone's kitchen with a glass of white wine chatting to them as they cooked, I would enjoy that. But just because I'd enjoy it doesn't mean a woman would.'

'Christ, what kinds of women have you been dating?'

'So you don't have a problem with it?'

'Of course not!'

'Fine.' John sounded relieved. 'Well, in that case I'll see you at my place at eight.'

'Um…'

'I'd better go. Bye then!'

'Yeah, bye…!'

There was a click as John hung up. Charley looked at the phone and frowned. Hadn't she called him up to cancel?

Some hours later Charley was staring up at a ceiling, reflecting on that moment. She lay on her back, the sheets of John's bed warm against her skin with a dull, pleasant ache between her legs. John had left her alone in the candlelit bedroom while he went to the bathroom and now he returned with a towel around his waist and two glasses of white wine in his hands. Charley sat up in bed as he approached and accepted a kiss before taking her glass of wine. She took a mouthful and looked at him, lowering her glass.

'That's a serious look,' said John, sitting on the bed facing her. He drank his wine and waited. Charley watched him.

'When I called you this afternoon,' she said, 'I was going to cancel.'

'I know.'

'I could have been calling to confirm.'

John laughed.

'A woman doesn't call a few hours before a dinner date to ask: Is it still OK for me to come? Not unless she's very insecure.'

'I am very insecure.'

John frowned. He took a mouthful of wine and pretended to savour it.

'All right,' he said. 'I hear you. But you seem to have it under control.'

'Do I?'

'What's bothering you, Charley?'

'When you picked up the phone, you said you were going to call me—that I was psychic. You told me you were having trouble with the restaurant booking and that you'd sent me a text that, apparently, I never got.' Charley swirled the wine in her glass. 'Tell me, John: Was any of that true?'

'Yes, of course.'

Charley looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. John, still frowning, leaned forwards and took the wine glass from her hand. Charley shivered. Had she offended him? She watched John put both glasses onto the bedside table and turn back. She opened her mouth to say something and he lunged for her.

Charley screamed. She felt herself lifted by main force and was thrown onto her back across the bed. The next moment, she was sandwiched between the mattress and John, his body weight pinning her to the bed, her wrists held fast in his hands.

'Isn't it true,' he said softly, 'that you never got a text?'

Charley looked up at him. His eyes looked dark and she felt his erection pressing against her leg. She tried to move. He held her fast and leaned closer.

'The rest of it was bullshit,' he said. 'A story I made up to distract you, to stop you changing your mind. But you already knew that, didn't you?'

Charley swallowed.

'Yes,' she said.

'You knew even before we had dinner, didn't you?'

'Yes.'

'In fact,' said John, leaning forwards to whisper in her ear. 'I think you knew even when we were talking on the phone.'

'No…'

John moved his body and Charley felt his cock pushing into her. She cried out in surprise, her back arching, her wrists fighting his grip. Her cunt resisted for a moment, then opened up and let him all the way in and Charley gave a grunt that seemed to come out of her belly.

'You knew I was lying,' said John as he fucked her. 'Didn't you?'

'Yes…'

'Right from the start!'

'Yes…!'

John's mouth came down onto hers, forcing it open. She welcomed his tongue with her own, tilting her head so she could reach further into his mouth. It was in her thoughts that John might stop fucking her out of sheer bloody-mindedness and there was no way she wanted that to happen. Not now.

Charley spent the night and the next day at John's, only getting dressed when she had to go home in the evening. It was dark in her apartment and she sat in that darkness, staring at nothing, her body aching and tired yet whirling with feelings at the same time. She closed her eyes. She imagined a presence on the couch next to her—a woman with dark hair and green eyes.

'Are you there?' said Charley.

There was silence, even in her mind. Charley felt tired and the image of the Priestess faded from view. She was gone. Charley opened her eyes and yawned. She got up from the couch and went to bed.

That night her sleep was deeper than she'd had for a long, long time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Aphrodite**

The moon glowed white in a blueblack sky. The marble temple stood upon the hill and shone the moon's light across the forest of cypress trees. Between two pillars of the temple stood a woman in a flowing white robe, so still she might have been a statue. Then she moved, walking down the steps that led from the temple and when she reached the grass of the hill, she turned, knelt and closed her eyes.

The Priestess felt her chest rise and fall as she concentrated on keeping her breath even. She felt dew from the grass begin to soak through the fabric of her gown. Eventually, she felt a presence. A hand brushed hair from her forehead and gently pushed it behind her ear.

'I'm here,' said a woman's voice. 'You may open your eyes now.'

* * *

A net curtain across the window turned the moonlight blue, giving the man and the woman on the bed a cool glow. John lay on his back and Charley was on top of him, grinding her hips and groaning as he dug his fingertips into her buttocks. Two figures robed in white stood in the near darkness and watched.

The Priestess looked away from Charley and glanced at her companion. Aphrodite had taken the form of a tall serious-looking woman with angular features. Her blond hair was piled elegantly on her head and her neck was long and graceful, yet despite her beauty there was something cold about her. When Charley cried out in orgasm, the goddess gave a small nod to herself like a lawyer approving a contract.

'You summoned Me,' said Aphrodite.

'Yes,' said the Priestess in a low voice.

'You know they can't hear us, don't you?'

The Priestess looked over to the bed. Charley was slumped on top of John's body, his erect cock still halfway inside her vagina.

'That's not the point, is it?' said the Priestess.

Aphrodite looked at the naked couple.

'I see a man and a woman doing what they were created to do,' she said. 'And, given who the woman is, you have a right to be here.'

'Not without her permission.'

'Do you love her?'

'Yes,' said the Priestess.

'Then you don't need her permission.'

There was a soft groan from the bed and the sound of movement. Charley had rolled off John and she half sat as he pulled the covers out from under them. In a few moments, they were under those covers, lying in each others' arms. One of her hands rested on John's face and he kissed it and smiled.

'I wanted to talk,' said the Priestess. 'Why did you bring me here instead?'

'To remind you who I am.'

The Priestess turned and looked at the goddess. The blue light made her seem carved from ice.

'You are Love,' said the Priestess. 'I have seen those who worship You experience joy beyond their wildest dreams. But I have also seen young men put guns in their mouths and blow off their heads because of You and I have seen beautiful women wreck their lives and bodies because of You. I have not forgotten who You are.'

'And yet you wish to bargain with me over that girl.'

The Priestess tried to protest and found herself frozen—she could not move nor speak. Aphrodite held her gaze a moment, then turned and walked away. She approached the bed, climbed onto it and lay next to Charley, brushing the hair from her forehead and pushing it gently behind her ear. Then Aphrodite's hand went under the covers and slid down Charley's body, coming to rest between her legs. Charley half opened her eyes and her breathing quickened. Aphrodite blew gently in her ear and Charley groaned.

'Here's what you need,' whispered the goddess. 'You need this man to come inside you. You need his seed in your belly. Nothing else will do.'

There was lust in Charley's half opened eyes, but also a glint of fear. Aphrodite smiled as though expecting it.

'His seed in your belly,' she whispered. 'You will demand it. You will lie and beg for it if you have to, but you will take what's his and when you do—you will believe you own him.'

Aphrodite moved her hand and Charley gasped.

'Do it. Now.'

Still half asleep, Charley lunged for John. She was onto him like a cat, pushing her tongue across his face and desperately into his mouth. His tongue came out to meet hers, his hands now all over her body. Aphrodite slid off the bed and walked back to the Priestess, stopping before her and looking her in the eyes. Looking back, the Priestess realised it was not coldness she saw in the eyes of the goddess—it was the absence of any emotion at all. Nothingness.

From the bed came the unmistakeable sound of Charley being fucked. Aphrodite tilted her head playfully at the Priestess.

'Whoever came up with the notion that humans have free will?' she said.

* * *

The sun was warm, its golden light shimmering over the waters of the lake. Haze turned the distant mountains blue and carried upon the wind came the faint screech of an eagle. The woman who sat on the bank looked up at the sound, then went back to contemplating the water. Her robe was pooled beneath her, flowing white over vivid green grass.

A second woman walked towards her down the sloping bank. She wore the same white robe, but her skin was darker and her hair was piled upon her head in a way reminiscent of an Egyptian princess. She sat next to the first woman and the two were silent for a while.

'I summoned the goddess,' said the Priestess.

Charlene said nothing, but her face showed that she had done the same thing herself.

'She told me I needed to be reminded who She was,' said the Priestess. 'And I thought: "No, I don't. No, I don't!" But She was right.'

'She's always right,' said Charlene.

'She's a bitch. That's what She is.'

The Priestess rested her chin on her knees and looked out across the water. Charlene followed her gaze.

'You know what trips me up about Aphrodite?' said Charlene.

The Priestess shrugged. What?

'I keep forgetting She's not human. She shows up as this dark skinned Amazon woman and I feel She's a sister.'

'With me she's this female lawyer type,' said the Priestess. 'White skin, blond.'

'She wear a suit?'

'No, no.' The Priestess tugged the fabric of her robe. Charlene nodded.

'Same here. Have you noticed Her eyes?'

'Yes.' The Priestess rubbed the back of her neck. 'That's when I got it; when I realised I was dealing with an entity that could not be reasoned with. That She was inhuman.'

'I'd say un-human. Inhuman implies cruelty, viciousness, sadism.'

'She's seemed to enjoy showing me how powerless I was.'

'That was your projection.' Charlene looked up at the sky. 'Is the sun being sadistic when it slowly kills a man in the desert? Is it being kind as it shines on us now? Or is it just a Force of Nature—doing what it was created to do?'

The Priestess's head snapped round to look at her companion. She looked deep into her eyes. A moment later, she was on her feet staring down at the dark-skinned woman.

'You really are a bitch,' said the Priestess.

Aphrodite got up, her form changing as she did. By the time she stood before the Priestess, she was the tall, blond woman again.

'What do you want?' said the goddess.

'Are you serious?'

'Yes. What do you want?'

'It's not for myself.'

'Yes, it is.'

The Priestess caught her breath. Then, forcing her voice to be steady, she said: 'I pushed Charley into John's arms. Don't punish her for my mistake. If you must punish someone, punish me.'

'You are being punished,' said Aphrodite. 'And not by Me.'

The Priestess opened her mouth to protest, but Aphrodite held up her hand.

'Your little girl is uptight and screwed up and all the rest,' said the goddess, 'but she's not weak and she's not stupid. If she aligns herself with Me she will be fine and if she doesn't, she will suffer. That's how it works. No exceptions.'

'She doesn't know what You are.'

'Then show her. Isn't that the whole point of you?'

'She hasn't spoken to me since she got together with John, let alone returned to the temple.'

'When the pain is bad enough, she'll be back.' Aphrodite stepped forwards and looked the Priestess in the eye. 'That's a promise.'


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: The Hydra **

It was a warm spring day and benches had been placed on the pavement against the long windows of the coffee house so customers could enjoy the sunshine. Charley and Barbie had put their handbags under their bench and Charley sat with one foot on the wooden slats, hugging her knee, her back leaning against the glass. Barbie couldn't risk doing that with her short white skirt. She sat with her knees pressed tightly together.

'Are you all right?' said Charley.

'I'm fine!' said Barbie. 'It's nice to see you again, Charles. It's been ages.'

'You're exaggerating.'

'Well over a month.'

Charley sipped her latte and considered. Barbie was right. Every weekend for the past six weeks had been spent at John's. If he hadn't gone on some trip this weekend, Charley would have been with him now.

'So what's his name?' said Barbie, looking at Charley over her cappuccino.

'Who says there's anyone?'

'Your body language. You walk different.'

Charley went red in the face. Barbie laughed and leaned closer to whisper.

'It's the walk of the well fucked woman.'

'Shut up!'

'I'm happy for you, Charles! About time too.'

'I don't walk different.'

'I'm not saying you walk like you've taken a hammering in the bedroom…'

'Barbie!'

Barbie held up her hands in surrender. 'It shows, is all I'm saying,' she said. 'As do my knickers. God!' Barbie tugged at the hem of her skirt.

Charley drank her coffee and stared at the shops on the opposite side of the street. There had been a lot of sex in those weekends. It was pretty much all she and John did—sex and conversations followed by more sex. But during the week she blocked it out of her mind, except for the one time she forgot to take her contraceptive pill and then, perversely, begged John to finish inside her. She'd had a few sleepless nights after that, but it didn't stop her fucking him the next time she saw him.

'So what's his name?' said Barbie.

Charley hesitated.

'John,' she said.

'Is he an older guy?'

'Why do you say that?'

'You hesitated. Like you were embarrassed.'

Charley stared at Barbie. Her eyelashes were clogged with mascara and she wore too much eye shadow, but there was something shrewd about the look in Barbie's eyes.

'Why should I be embarrassed if he's a bit older?' said Charley.

'You shouldn't.'

'But you brought it up.'

Barbie sighed and looked into her empty cup.

'Do you remember that guy from the tax office I was seeing last year?' she said. 'The one who turned out to be married? Well, you had quite a lot of things to say about his age.' There was a pause. 'And about girls with daddy issues.'

It was Charley's turn to stare into her empty cup.

'That was mean of me,' she said after a while. 'I'm sorry, Barbara.'

'It's okay. I guess you can see the attraction now.'

Charley wanted to protest, to say that John was in no way like that aging creep from the tax office. She forced herself to keep quiet.

'You one's not married though, is he?' said Barbie.

Charley's face changed colour again.

'Charles, no!' Barbie looked aghast. 'You're kidding me!'

'It's a different situation!' said Charley, trying to lower the volume of their conversation. 'Technically he's still married, but he's in the process of getting a divorce.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

But as Charley changed the subject, she realised that she didn't feel sure at all.

On Sunday, John called. He had just arrived back from his trip and he'd missed her. Would she like to catch a movie with him that evening?

Charley was caught by surprise. It was the first time since they got together that he'd asked her out and she jumped at it. She had dinner early and went to meet John at the cinema, throwing herself into his arms when she saw him. She watched the movie holding his hand or resting her head on his shoulder and as it was an action film both of them were hyped up as they filed out with the other movie-goers. Charley hoped John wouldn't want to go for a drink. She was in the mood for sex and she hoped they would drive straight back to his house. She even wore clothes that would be suitable for going straight to work the next day.

In the lobby, Charley looked over at the queues of people waiting to buy tickets for the late performances. A tall woman in a long light-grey coat turned and saw John—Charley saw the woman's breath catch. She was with a man who was shorter than her and he continued to talk even though the tall woman was not even pretending to listen. She only saw John. And by the sudden chill that swept down Charley's back, she realised who the woman was.

John turned his head. He saw the woman. Charley felt a shockwave of silent emotion burst out of him like an explosion. The woman raised one hand encased in a black glove. The hand did not wave, it was a motionless salute—Hi there.

John did not return the gesture. He continued to walk—did not stop walking—until they were through the doors and outside in the chill evening air. He overtook some slow-moving pedestrians and marched along the pavement. Charley almost had to run to keep up.

'Was that your—?'

'Yes!'

It was a declaration, a command—Do Not Say Any More. They walked to the car in silence, got in and John started the engine. He swung the car out into the street, nearly hitting a taxi.

'Christ, John! I want to get home in one piece!'

'Sorry.'

Charley looked at the man by her side. In the faint light of the dashboard his face looked dark and feral, like a wolf that wanted to kill something. Charley knew better than to raise the forbidden subject.

'Can you drop me off at my place?' she said.

John glanced at Charley as he drove. It was the first time he had looked at her since seeing his wife. He sighed.

'Charley, I'm sorry,' he said.

' "Sorry doesn't put Humpty Dumpty together again",' said Charley. It was a line from the film and John laughed.

'It was a good movie, wasn't it?' he said.

'It was fun,' said Charley. 'But the fun has gone out of this evening and I'm too tired to talk about it now. I have work tomorrow.'

'I'm not sure talking will do any good.'

'Then we're fucked.'

John looked at her again. He saw she wasn't joking.

'Okay,' he said. 'Next Saturday evening, dinner at my place. We'll talk about it then.'

'Can't we meet during the week?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Do you want to talk about it or not?'

'Of course I do!'

'Fine! Next Saturday it is.'

Charley hardly slept that night and during the next day she had trouble keeping her mind on her job. After work, she walked home, her head full of worried thoughts and when she passed the coffee house and saw that her favourite spot was vacant, she went in. Latte in hand, she took her usual place and dug around in her bag for her mobile phone, intending to check if there had been any calls before settling down to a good session of staring out the window. Her hand touched the familiar square corner of the journal.

Weird, she thought, I don't remember putting that in here. She took it out, half-expecting it to be something else, but no, it was the journal all right. Charley looked at it for a while and then went back into her bag. She found her pen, clicked it on and began to write.

* * *

I sit in my favourite spot at the big table in my favourite coffee house. The place is full, but not too full—there is a pleasant feeling of companionship in the presence of these other people. They sit and read newspapers, some are talking and a couple of them are working on laptop computers. Light jazz plays in the background.

The door handle creaks—I can hear it from over here. I look up and, despite my feelings of gloom, I smile. A woman has entered. She is dressed in white with a brown belt and a white headband that holds back her chestnut brown hair.

It is the Priestess.

People watch her, particularly the men. She orders a latte at the counter and looks over at me, smiling and lifting her hand in the same gesture as John's wife. She collects her coffee and walks over, asking a man to move his chair with a radiant smile. The man moves his chair, clearly happy to have been even noticed by such a beautiful woman. I stand to greet her.

'It's been a while,' she says.

'Yes,' I say.

The Priestess puts her latte onto the table and gives me a hug. I feel her squeeze me close and I can smell the scent of almond oil. It feels so good, so safe, in the embrace of those slender arms. She pulls away and indicates that I should sit. She sits down herself and reaches for a wooden coffee stirrer before turning her attention to me.

'So ... how are you doing?' asked the Priestess, spooning a blob of froth from the coffee and putting it in her mouth.

'Not so good,' I said. I glanced out through the window and sighed. 'I think John's still in love with his wife.'

'That doesn't surprise me. Anything else?'

I stared at her.

'Isn't that enough?!'

'Well, no, frankly.'

All the joy I felt at seeing the Priestess again vanished. This woman could really piss me off! She drank from her mug and wiped foam off her lip with an elegant forefinger. She looked back at me and seemed surprised at the expression on my face.

'Are you really that naïve?' said the Priestess. 'Did you think John married his wife because he got bored one Sunday afternoon and it seemed like a good idea at the time?'

'She had an affair!'

'So?'

I shook my head at her in disbelief.

'You're from a different planet,' I said. 'You have no idea how things work here in the real world.'

'I know exactly how things work in the real world,' said the Priestess. 'Or rather, how they don't work. The _**pain**_ that men and women inflict on each other—all in the name of Love! It's my job to know it, because it's my job to change it.'

'What are you talking about?'

The Priestess looked long and hard at me. She put her mug onto the table and leaned towards me in a way that suggested she meant business.

'What do you want, Charley?' she said.

'I thought you didn't like that name?'

'I don't, but right now it's apt. I repeat: What do you want, Charley?'

Her voice was hard and loud. Despite her business-like manner, her eyes were angry. I felt like a little kid being told off.

'I'm confused,' I said at last. 'Should I end it with John? Should I hear him out first? But why Saturday? Why is it only the weekends that I can see him? Should I try and change that? And my feelings, they go up and down like you wouldn't believe. Sometimes I almost ache with happiness, especially when we're in bed, but other times I'm completely miserable and I feel stuck and lost. I don't know what to do. So if you're asking me "What do you want?" my answer is: I want to know what to do. That's what I want.'

The Priestess nodded. There was no longer any anger in her expression and she took my hand and squeezed it. She smiled.

'All right, Charlene,' she said. 'That is a fair request. And my response is: What would Love do?'

'Pardon?'

'What would Love do?'

My mind went blank. I looked into the eyes of the Priestess, those green, green eyes with a dot of orange in their centre. I leaned closer, fascinated by that dot, until I realised that it was the reflection of a fire in the room. I looked to one side and saw an iron brazier with coal that burned orange. There was a tapestry on one of the walls.

'We're back in the temple!' I said.

'Yes,' said the Priestess. 'This is the third chamber.'

'We're still there?'

'You never left. Don't you recognise what we're sitting on?'

It was John's bed. I leapt up and stared at it. The Priestess got up and walked over to the tapestry at the entrance. She turned and waited.

'What?' I said.

She gave me a look as if to say: You know damn well what. I trudged over and looked. As I expected, it was Jason fighting the Hydra. Then I looked closer, looked at the man's features.

'It's John,' I said.

He wore the breastplate and shin-guards of a Greek warrior, but it was clearly him. He had a shield across one arm and his sword was raised against one of the monster's many heads.

'According to legend,' said the Priestess, 'when you cut one head from the Hydra, two will grow in its place.'

'Yes. I remember.'

'Tell me, Charlene: If you were John's sister and not his lover, what would you do in this current situation? What would you see?'

I gazed at the man in the tapestry. It seemed that his expression as he fought the monster was not fear, but fury.

'I would see that my brother is angry,' I said. 'Very angry. It's like a giant rock.' I closed my eyes. 'But it's not jealous anger. The way he reacted at the cinema, he wasn't jealous of seeing his wife with another man. It was more like righteous anger.' I opened my eyes and looked at the Priestess. 'There's something John hasn't told me, something hidden behind that rock. But I don't know what it is and I don't think John knows either. And until he knows, he will not be free of his anger.'

The Priestess nodded. She looked pleased.

'What do I do?' I said.

'Help him. Help him to see the truth behind the rock.'

'How?'

'You'll find a way.'

I turned and looked back at the bed—a bed I knew intimately. I shook my head.

'I'm going to lose him, aren't I?' I said.

'I don't know,' said the Priestess. 'I truly don't. But could you really be happy with a man who is not willing to face what needs to be faced? Could that man ever be happy until he reckons with it?'

'But why me? Why should I be the one who makes him see that, maybe, he should not have chosen to be with me?'

The Priestess put her hands on the sides of my face and looked into my eyes.

'Because you love him,' she said. 'And that's what Love does.'


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Behind The Rock **

It was Saturday evening.

Charley was calm as she walked up the short gravel drive that led to John's semi-detached house. She had cried herself to sleep the night before and had spent all day alone in her apartment, but as she rang the doorbell she felt braced, prepared. She had no idea what she would say, but it would come.

The familiar shape of John appeared through the frosted glass window of the front door before he opened it. Then there he was, the anger of the other night gone. He was John, the John she knew, the John who was pleased and maybe even relieved to see her. They hugged, they kissed, but it was not a lovers' kiss. John felt the change and looked down at her. Charley shrugged.

'We need to talk,' she said.

'Okay. Come on through.'

Charley followed John into the familiar living room with its deep-pile carpet. They had made love on that carpet. And on the couch and on the armchair. The armchair fuck had been great - Charley had had both legs slung over the soft armrests and John had held her ankles tight as he fucked her. She wondered if it would be the last time she ever saw it.

'Drink?'

'Yes, please.'

John made her a Campari and orange and himself a gin and tonic. As he prepared the drinks, Charley glanced through the door that led into the dining room. The table was laid for two, the candles unlit in the centre.

'Here you go,' said John, handing her the tall glass, orange at the top, blood-red at the base. Charley sat on the couch and John sat next to her, his body turned towards her. Charley forced herself to turn towards him. He raised his glass.

'Cheers.'

They clinked glasses and drank. John had overdone it on the Campari. Or maybe not. Maybe Charley needed to be slightly drunk to get through this.

'Okay,' said John. 'What's on your mind?'

'Your wife.'

'You mean my ex-wife.'

'No, she's still your wife. You're not yet divorced.'

'These things take time.'

'More than a year? Come on, John! You've had a whole year to divorce that woman and you haven't done it!'

John took a heavy slug of gin and turned away.

'She's forcing me to make all the arrangements,' he said. 'The only thing she's been willing to do is turn up to the meetings I make with the lawyer. She won't even get her own.'

'Why? Why is that?'

'Because she's a fucked-up bitch.' He said it calmly as though it were an indisputable fact.

'I saw her, John. And she struck me as neither fucked-up nor a bitch.'

'You weren't married to her.'

Charley looked at him, drinking his gin and tonic; his glass of bitterness.

'What did she do?' said Charley. 'What the hell did she do to make you so mad?'

'I told you what she did.'

'Yes, she slept with another man. But apart from that.'

'What do you mean: Apart from that?' John stood and walked to the fireplace where a gas heater had replaced the chimney grate. He was angry. 'She goes on a business trip and fucks another guy! Someone from a rival company, for God's sake!'

'And you couldn't forgive her?'

'That's not the point!' John finished his drink in one swallow and went to make another. The gin bottle clanked against the glass as he poured. 'You have no idea what it was like after it happened. Every time her phone beeped, I'd wonder: Is it _**him**_?' When she checked her e-mails, I'd wonder: Is she quiet because he's sent her a message? Or is she laughing because he sent her a message? When her job kept sending her away on business it nearly drove me mad. I was alone in the house, thinking, 'Is she having sex with someone else? Now? Right this minute?' I lived in dread of those nights.'

'I can imagine,' said Charley. 'It must have been hell.'

'Yeah, that's a pretty good word for it.' John drank, then turned and looked at her half-full glass.

'Do you want a top-up?'

'Just orange juice,' she said, handing him the glass.

John went into the kitchen to get the orange juice from the fridge. Left alone for a moment, Charley slumped back against the couch and stared up at the ceiling. This was not going well. John's anger seemed entirely justified and yet something nagged her, told her that things were never that simple. She closed her eyes and thought of the Priestess. She had this way of cutting through the bullshit, of getting to the truth—Charley hated her for it at times, but she was always right. She would know how to handle this situation. Charley tried to imagine what the Priestess would say to John if she were here. She opened her eyes and her gaze fell onto the armchair.

John came back into the room and handed Charley her drink. He topped up his own and then sat down next to her.

'Is there something wrong with my armchair?' he said.

'I was thinking about the time you fucked me on it.'

'Oh yes. I remember that.'

Charley took a drink of orange.

'I also remember the stories you told me while you fucked me,' she said. 'Getting me to imagine another man in the room and how, when you were done, you'd make me fuck him too. It made me so horny.'

John put his hand on her leg and leaned closer.

'You always did enjoy sex talk,' he said.

'I usually don't,' said Charley. 'In the past, any guy who tried it was a complete turn-off. I'd say: I want to make love, not get fucked. But you're different. When you do it, it's like you create an atmosphere where anything is possible, where everything's allowed, where the only thing you want is for me to be wild and free. And because of that feeling I realised there's a part of me who _**loves**_ being fucked. I absolutely love it.'

John's hand had been moving across her thigh as she was talking, his eyes never leaving hers. Charley felt his warm breath on her lips. She placed her hand on top of his and stopped it moving.

'The thing is, John,' she said, 'is that the way you make love to me and the way I see you deal with your wife—they don't seem to come from the same man. When we have sex, you say things that make me feel I could be the biggest slut in the world and you wouldn't care—you'd still love me. But when I see what's happened with your wife, it's clear this isn't true. That all the freedom and wildness and lust you encourage really is ... just talk. You don't really mean it. You just do it because it works.'

John's eyes seemed to darken as he looked at her. Charley felt him remove his hand and when he spoke his voice was icy.

'What are you saying?'

'Did you ever cheat on your wife?' said Charley.

'Never.'

'But you wanted to?'

'No!'

'I don't believe you.'

John sat back and ran a hand through his hair. 'Look,' he said. 'I'm not saying there were never opportunities to sleep with other women. And I'm not saying I was never tempted. But it wasn't worth risking my marriage.'

'I think your wife would have understood.'

John got up and went to pour himself another drink. Charley's glass was empty, but this time he did not offer a refill. He stood by the cabinet and emptied half his glass of gin and tonic into his throat. When he turned to her, his eyes were red.

'What are you getting at?' he said.

'I think you already know.'

'I don't think you know shit!'

Charley stood. She faced John, holding herself as tall as she could.

'When we first met,' she said, 'you told me a story about a man who was faithful to his wife, not because he wanted to be good, but because he was afraid to be bad. And the way you told me this story gave me the feeling that you were the opposite of this man—that if you were faced with the same choice, you would choose for the truth no matter how scary the consequences might be.'

Charley tilted her head to one side.

'But I've changed my mind about that,' she said. 'I now think you chose the lie. Yes, you—Honest John—you chose the lie. But your wife didn't know it was a lie, did she? She listened to your stories of wildness and sexual adventure and she took you at your word, didn't she? When temptation came her way, she did what she thought you would do. She chose for the truth, for the adventure, for the wildness—and she thought you would understand.'

'No,' said John. 'That's not what happened.'

'How did you find out about the affair?'

'She told me.'

'How did she tell you?'

'What do you mean?'

'Did she sit you down on the couch and confess, tears of remorse streaming down her cheeks? Or did she tell you in bed—while you were making wild and sexy love to her?'

John stared at Charley. His head was trying to shake, trying to deny what it was beginning to understand.

'She did what you didn't dare to do,' said Charley. 'That's what this is all about, isn't it? You were supposed to be the Man of Truth, not her. You were the one who read books about it. You were the one who brought out the Bad Girl in her. And then she goes and shows you how it's _**really**_ done. She doesn't just talk about it—she does it—and that really burns, doesn't it? Much easier to say she's a fucked-up bitch.'

'Enough!'

John hurled his glass at the wall. It shattered into a thousand pieces, shards of glass scattering like snowflakes. John stood, breathing hard, his fists clenched. Charley stood and waited.

'Charley,' said John, his voice controlled. 'Maybe there is some truth in what you've said, but that doesn't mean my marriage isn't over.'

'I think you still love her, behind all this anger. And I know she still loves you.'

'How could you know?'

'I felt it. She was happy to see you. And you're still married.'

'It's a technicality.'

'Not to your wife. If she had wanted this too, you'd be divorced by now. Trust me—women do not mess around with things like that.'

'What she wants is no longer my problem.'

Charley put her hands on her hips and let out a sigh.

'John, whether you want to deal with this or run away from it is up to you. I'm not going to tell you what to do. But I will not be your refuge from the truth. I deserve better than that.'

John and Charley looked at each other across the room—John near the drinks cabinet; Charley standing in the centre of the room facing him. Neither spoke. The silence stretched, lasting longer and longer, until finally it dawned on them the reason for this silence: There was nothing more to say.

Later that evening, Charley arrived home. She stood alone in her living room and felt she was standing on an island at night. The sea was black and rollers crashed on the shore before her feet. Then, the ocean was sucked away and in the distance she saw a wave—a huge black mountain of water—building and building, full of grief and sadness, rolling towards her. She didn't have much time.

Charley picked up her mobile phone and punched a number from her address book. She held the phone to her ear, listening to the dial-tone and feeling the wave rumble towards her. The phone clicked on with a cacophony of noise—thumping music and voices trying to shout over it.

'Charles!' shrieked Barbie. 'Where are you?'

'At home.'

'Well, you've got to come out!'

'I can't.'

'Oh, come on!'

'I just broke up with John. I think he's going back to his wife.'

The sound of hip-hop music and loud voices blared out of the phone like a badly tuned radio. Charley wondered if she should repeat herself.

'I'll be right over,' said Barbie. Charley never loved Barbie as much as she did in that moment.

'Thank you,' she said.

Charley clicked off the phone. The wave was almost upon her. She calmly picked up a cushion from the couch and knelt on the rug. Hugging the cushion to her stomach, she bowed her head as though awaiting a headsman to execute her.

The wave hit. A cry that began in her belly roared up her throat and burst out of her mouth in a wail. Rivers of tears swept down her face as the grief wracked her body. Charley fell to her side and curled up in a ball, the cushion tight in her belly and she cried and cried and cried and cried.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: The Fourth Chamber**

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite.

It is night and the white marble of the temple gleams in the light of a full moon. I have the feeling that I have returned here after a long journey and, simultaneously, the feeling that I have never left. There is something eternal about this place as though it has always been here, untouched by time. I feel there is something eternal about me too. The knowledge that I, Charley, am a woman from the twenty-first century suddenly seems unimportant, incidental.

I walk up the temple steps, the marble cool on my bare feet, and enter through the pillars. In the inner courtyard standing between two iron braziers is the Priestess. She wears once again her white robe and her long dark hair falls about her shoulders. I walk up to her.

'How are you?' she says.

'Scarred,' I replied. 'But at peace with my scars.'

'Do you want to continue?'

She gestured towards the fourth tapestry, the one which stood at the centre. It was the first tapestry I had seen, the one behind which the Priestess had appeared and disappeared on my very first visit here. It depicted Perseus holding up the head of Medusa.

'What's behind it?' I said.

'Aphrodite.'

I stared at her. My heart beat faster and I realised I was excited. A meeting with the goddess Herself? My excitement must have shown on my face because the Priestess looked away. I don't know why, but she seemed disappointed.

'You have passed through the first three chambers,' she said. 'And there are three chambers to go. It is customary for an audience to take place between a woman and the goddess at this stage.'

She walked over and stood by the Perseus tapestry with the air of 'come on, let's get this over with.' She didn't need to ask twice—I was across the courtyard in a flash. The Priestess pushed the tapestry aside and I entered the fourth chamber.

As soon as I was inside, I knew I was in the presence of magic. Instead of a chamber I stood in a garden, surrounded by a circle of narrow columns that seemed to grow up through the shiny green leaves of laurel bushes. Above my head, white clouds swept across a blue sky and the sun winked through the branches of orange and lemon trees. The air was full of the smells of orange blossom, jasmine, lavender and the tang of lemon and I could hear birdsong and the occasional squawk of a parakeet. In the centre of the garden stood a circular fountain and in the centre of the fountain washing herself in plumes of sparkling water was a goddess.

She was like a statue come to life, twice as tall as a human woman with skin of alabaster white which seemed to shine under the water. She filled a clay amphora with water and poured it over her breasts. She must know I'm here, I thought. I felt uncomfortable—partly through the display and partly through half-remembered tales of people struck blind when stumbling upon the sight of a goddess bathing. Didn't Aphrodite turn Medusa into a Gorgon with snakes for hair for such a crime?

'Medusa's sin was pride,' said a woman's voice. 'Not voyeurism.'

The voice seemed to come from within my mind, but the woman in the water was looking right at me with bright blue eyes. Standing tall in the centre of the fountain, she held out both arms like a woman being measured for a dress and the water fell and swirled, fell and swirled, creating a robe of shimmering fabric that hung from her curved and voluptuous body. Her hair plaited itself into a long ponytail that hung down her back and Aphrodite stepped down from the pedestal of the fountain, the water tamed, and stood before me. She was now exactly my height and her skin had taken on a pinkish hue, but still—I felt diminished and small in her presence.

'Hello Charley,' she said in a voice as rich as melted chocolate. She smiled. I could hardly breathe.

'You're beautiful,' I said.

'I know.'

Aphrodite touched my face with her hands. She leaned forwards and kissed me full on the lips, her tongue in my mouth. I had never wanted to kiss another woman before, but this was the most wonderful thing I had ever felt and I found myself hungrily kissing her back. I felt her fingertips pressing into my scalp and then her tongue twisted and grew, pushing past my own tongue and down into my throat. I tried to pull away, tried to scream, but she held me fast and I felt my mouth and throat filling up. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move and my hands flailed around trying to grab onto something.

Suddenly, I was thrown to the ground. On my hands and knees, I coughed and retched, taking in ragged breaths between sobs. My eyes were streaming with tears and I realised I was weeping.

I don't know how long I spent crying. I was expecting the Priestess to appear and tell me I'd screwed up again, but she was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Aphrodite. I was still in the garden, but where the fountain had been there lay a path. It led away from the garden and into what looked like a grove of orange trees. I didn't like the idea of following the path, but I couldn't see any other way out, so I got to my feet and made my way along it.

Entering the grove of orange trees was like walking into a cathedral with branches forming the pillars and arches and the leaves turning the light green the way light through a stained glass window changes colour. Pink and white blossoms whirled around my head and I could hear the wind hissing about my ears. There were also shadows beyond the trees and I made sure to keep to the path—this was not a place where I wanted to get lost.

The path led to what looked like a dead end. The trees converged, creating a dense wall of roots and branches that coiled and intertwined. Yet as I approached, I heard the creak of wood and the branches twisted and cracked until they formed an opening large enough for me go through. The opening seemed like a world of light compared to the shade of the orange trees and I shaded my eyes as I stepped through. The wind seemed to hiss in protest and the moment I was on the other side, the branches coiled shut behind me.

I stood in a space that reminded me of the centre of a maze, an area of grass surrounded by twisted, impassable trees. There were statues of men dotted around, life-sized figures that stood upon the grass rather than upon a plinth. In the centre stood a man and a woman talking. The man wore a white tunic and had his back turned, but I recognised the woman despite her white robe. She saw me, smiled and raised her ungloved hand in a sort of silent salute—Hi there. The man turned to see what she was looking at.

It was John.

He saw me, his eyes and mouth opened in a weird way and he turned grey—his hair, his skin, even the tunic he wore. His eyes blanked out into stony greyness and within a few seconds I was looking at another statue. There was a hiss in my ear and I suddenly realised that it had not been the wind.

'No!'

My hands went to my head. As soon as I touched my hair I felt it coil and twist under my fingers. I cried out as my skin was nipped and when I looked at my hands, they were bleeding from several small bites. I stared at the woman who had taken the form of John's wife.

'What have you done?' I screamed.

'Me?' said the woman.

'Don't pretend you're not Aphrodite!'

'I'm not denying it,' said the woman as she walked up to me. 'But I didn't do any of this. You did.'

She indicated the statues. I looked around and realised that these were not anonymous figures from Greek legend—they were people I had known. Well, men I had known. No, wait. There was one female, a girl of around fifteen with short hair and shapely legs: Rachel Scott. I looked at the stone face and felt cold inside as I remembered.

Rachel Scott was in the same year of school, but in a different class. My only real contact with her was during sports when classes would compete against each other. She was a keen hockey player who liked to win, but if I beat her in a tackle, she had none of the bitchiness typical of most girls I knew. Rachel seemed to appreciate a good opponent and even off the playing fields I would receive a smile and a nod if ever I made eye contact with her. But she'd never talk to me, always keeping her distance.

Then one day, during a game, I took a shot and missed. I swung my hockey stick in a gesture of frustration and heard a cry as it hit someone. I turned and saw Rachel bent over with blood running out of her nose. I was mortified, dropping my stick and running to her, apologies pouring out of me. I walked with her off the field to the medical room where the nurse cleaned her up and gave her an ice pack to keep down the swelling. Rachel and I figured there was no point going back to the playing field, so we went to the changing rooms. I still felt guilty and as she unlaced her boots, I sat next to her and offered yet another apology.

'There's no need,' she said. 'It was an accident.'

'I just wish I could make it better,' I said.

Rachel looked at me. If I had paid attention to the look in her eyes things might have gone differently, but all I saw was the livid bruise across her nose and cheek that I had caused. I took her face in my hands with the intention of having a closer look. Rachel let out a sigh which, years later, I recognised as it came out of me when a man I had longed for finally touched me. I looked at her and smiled and she had leant forwards and kissed me.

* * *

Charley stopped writing. She was already crying as she forced herself to write, but the sobs now coming up were making that impossible and she couldn't fight the grief any longer. As the scene replayed in her mind, she bent double in the chair and wept.

The girl with short hair had kissed the girl with long hair. The girl with long hair had leapt back and screamed. Actually screamed. She stared down at the girl with short hair, then grabbed her bag and her clothes and had run out of the changing rooms. The girl with short hair was left alone, sitting on a bench with a bashed up face.

After a time, Charley stopped crying. She went to the bathroom and washed her face before getting back to her writing.

* * *

I stand before the statue of Rachel Scott. The eyes are blank—statue eyes—and I can't tell if they reproach me or not. I hear a slight hiss in my ear.

'She survived,' said a voice. 'But the mark you made on her is still visible.'

Aphrodite had changed form yet again. This time she was a tall, somewhat stern-looking woman with long blond hair arranged elegantly on her head. Despite her white robe, she put me in mind of a female lawyer.

'Why do you keep changing?' I said.

'I don't,' said the goddess. 'I am Love—eternal and changeless. But your perception of Love changes and so my form must change to match it.'

'You mean, you change to suit _**me?**_'

'Just the outward appearance, darling. If you choose to deal with me on a regular basis, you will find I am quite implacable.'

'I've noticed.'

Aphrodite laughed. It was a harsh, unpleasant sound that echoed off the statues and carried across the twisted trees.

'You stupid little girl,' she said. 'You haven't even _**begun**_. You've not reached thirty and just look at the wreckage you've already accumulated!' She waved an arm at the statues. 'Do you seriously hold me responsible for any of this? Did I make you scream in a fifteen year old girl's face for the crime of falling in love with you? Did I make you have sex with a young man for the sole purpose of scotching rumours that you were a lesbian? And when he busted you on it, did I make you spread stories about him having used you? I am Love and I keep changing form, my dear, because you have no fucking clue who I am!'

I looked around at the statues. Apart from Rachel Scott, they were all men, some of them young—boys, really. In my mind, each one of them was rated as emotionally crippled in one area or another—the guy who made me unhappy because he had no sense of humour was stood next to the guy who made me unhappy because he never took anything seriously—but seeing them all together, I became aware of what they all shared. There was a fragile beauty, a sense of uncertainty, of humanity, so unlike the heroic poses of statues as I was used to seeing them.

'They're not statues,' said Aphrodite, reading my thoughts. 'They're human beings who have been turned to stone. By you.'

I gasped. There was another woman made of stone, with long hair and the robe of a priestess.

'Why is she here?' I asked.

'Why not?'

'Because she's not real!'

Aphrodite seemed to catch her breath. She folded her arms and looked at me, one eyebrow raised.

'My, my,' she said. 'You do know how to wield the knife, don't you?'

'But I never met her before I came here.'

'I think you'd better go before I lose my temper.'

'Wait!'

Aphrodite clapped her hands together and everything went black. Then, as my eyes adjusted, I realised I was standing on a hill at night looking up at the temple of Aphrodite. As I stood and watched, the orange glow that came from within went out and there was only darkness beyond the white pillars.

My audience with the goddess was over.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: The Fifth Chamber**

It was a bright Saturday morning. The sky was white and a brief shower of rain had left the streets wet and shiny. Charley wore jeans, boots and a brown leather jacket as she walked briskly to the coffee house and entered, joining a short queue to the counter. She looked over at the big communal table and saw a familiar face—a woman with pale skin and sharp cheekbones.

It was Barbie's work colleague, Karen. Charley first met her during a night out with Barbie when a group of them had gone to a disco. The dance floor was heaving and as neither Charley nor Karen had any desire to join the sweating masses, they ended up having a shouted conversation by one of the standing tables. It had not been fun. Barbie's outfit was sparser than usual and Karen treated Charley to a sort of running commentary on the groping her friend had to endure from the men. However, when one guy went too far, Karen charged onto the dance floor in Barbie's defence and there was nearly a fight. After that, much as Charley disliked Karen, she could not help feeling a grudging respect for her.

Karen had seen Charley enter the coffee house and gave a short wave. Charley returned the greeting, her smile neutral, her hand coming to rest on the bag which contained her journal. Karen was sat at the wrong end of the table away from Charley's favourite spot. Charley wondered if Karen would be offended if she were to go sit there anyway. Stupid question—of course she would. Plus she would find the notion of a favourite spot 'girly.' Charley collected her latte and went over to where Karen sat.

'Hi, Karen,' she said.

'Hello,' said Karen. 'Don't worry, I'm about to leave.'

Charley sat on the chair opposite Karen with the air of not knowing what she was talking about, although she did not take off her leather jacket.

'I think it's the first time I've seen you here,' said Charley.

'Are you surprised, the price they charge for this coffee?'

Charley shrugged and took a sip of her own latte. Karen drained her cup and stood, putting on her coat.

'You off already?' said Charley.

'Well, I might see you tonight,' said Karen. 'If you're joining us?'

'Barbie did invite me.'

'Barbie's always inviting you. Is this one of those rare occasions when you say yes?'

Charley swallowed.

'Maybe,' she said.

'Great.' Karen's eyes were grey and they looked at Charley, direct and disinterested. 'See you then. Maybe'

'Yeah. See you, Karen.'

The door handle creaked and Karen was gone. Through the window, Charley watched her cross the road and disappear down the street. She looked over at her favourite spot. Two teenage girls sat there having a lively conversation, their cappuccinos full to the brim. Charley shrugged off her leather jacket and hung it over the back of the chair where she sat. She took the journal from her bag and opened it, turning to a fresh page. She found her pen, clicked it on and began to write.

* * *

'Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!'

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite in a really bad fucking mood. The weather here is not helping. It's cold and it's dark, a night without stars. The sky is heavy with clouds and there is a chill in the air. As usual, I wear the white cotton dress with nothing underneath. 'Great choice!' I shout up at the temple. There is a rumble of thunder back. I run up the steps, more to escape the cold than because I am eager for my next encounter.

Inside, the courtyard is warmer. I walk up to one of the braziers and warm my hands near the glowing coals. After a few moments, the Priestess steps out from behind the tapestry of Perseus.

'So who are you today?' I say.

'Hello, Charlene,' said the Priestess. She walked up to me, her face serious, unsmiling.

'Is something wrong?' I said.

'No. Everything is in place.'

'Really? Well, that's nice, isn't it? Everything is hunky-dory!'

The Priestess watched me warming my hands by the iron brazier. Then she laughed and twirled, holding her gown like a dancer. She came to a stop, shook her hair back and opened her arms towards me.

'All right, Charley!' she said. 'Let me have it!'

'Have what?'

'Everything! Your anger, your frustration, all that shit in your head. Tell me what a bitch I am! Tell me that you don't trust me! Tell me that I'm full of myself! Come on, let's see if you can say something that will actually hurt me.'

'Are you Her?'

The Priestess seemed to freeze. She put her hands on her hips and looked away, her hair falling over her face. When she brushed it back, I saw that her eyes were glistening. She looked at me and nodded, forcing herself to smile.

'Well done,' she said. 'Two points to you.'

'I don't understand.'

'Evidently.'

The Priestess let out a deep sigh, wiped her eyes with her arm and looked back at me.

'I am not Aphrodite,' she said.

'How do I know that's true?'

'Aphrodite is Love. And Love would never deny itself. It cannot. Only humans can do that.'

'What do you mean?'

The Priestess came up to me and placed her hands on my shoulders.

'Why are you here, Charlene? Why did you come to this place?'

'I don't know. I was unhappy.'

'Yes. Unhappy of going through life feeling like a helpless little girl. And you came here because you want to go through life as a woman, isn't that right?'

I nodded. I felt the Priestess's hands squeeze my shoulders.

'The thing is, Charlene,' said the Priestess, 'is that you've got things backwards. You think you need to do something or discover something in order to become a 'real' woman, but the fact is: You're already there. You are a woman; you cannot not be a woman. The power of the Feminine—your womanhood—is already in your possession, but you deny this. You refuse to claim it. Do you understand?'

'I … I think I do.'

'Do you want to stop being a little girl?'

'Yes!'

That word came from deep in my gut and was met with a rumble of thunder from outside. The Priestess looked deep into my eyes, gave a short nod and led me to the tapestry that covered the entrance to the fifth chamber. It showed Theseus, a warrior with a sharp black beard, fighting the Minotaur which had the hairy, muscular body of a man and the head of a bull. There was something about it that revolted me in a way the other monsters did not. The chimera and the hydra were fantasy beasts, but there was something down to earth about the Minotaur—it was more a mockery of a man than a monster.

'All right, it is time,' said the Priestess. She pushed aside the tapestry. 'Stop denying your womanhood, Charlene. The power of the Feminine is yours by right. But you have to claim it.'

'I understand.'

The Priestess looked unconvinced. I made to enter and she put her hand on my shoulder, stopping me for a moment.

'I will be there when you need me,' she said.

I wanted to ask more, but she shook her head. Nervously, I entered and the tapestry fell back into place behind me.

The chamber within was quite large and lit by four braziers that stood in the corners of the room. Curtains covered the walls and at the far side was a large, square cage. The cage was made of gold and looked big enough to contain a gorilla—there was a man-sized door in the centre. Behind the bars, hunched in the corner, was a small, hairy shape.

'Oh, my God!' I said.

At the sound of my voice, the shape moved. A head turned to look at me; not a bull's head, thank God, but a man's. Well, a species of man. The eyes were milky yellow with dark, almost black, irises. He had thick matted hair on his head and a scraggy beard, although the face itself was hairless. His body was hairy, but not hairy like an ape—it was the hair of a hairy man. He had not the look of a Neanderthal; it was more the look of a normal man who had been locked in a dungeon for years. I felt horror, but also pity. How long had he been there?

Suddenly, he leapt to his feet and rattled the bars, screaming. I jumped back with a cry. The barred door made a terrifying noise in the small space and his howls must have echoed throughout the temple. I realised that, although he was small, he was also strong. His arms were sinewy with a terrible strength and he shook the bars with such force that I was afraid they would break.

Then, just as suddenly, he stopped. He looked at me. I saw hatred and anger in that look, but there was also anguish. I had no doubt that this man had suffered. He looked around the room and then stretched his arm through the bars, a dirty fingernail pointing. He made low, guttural noises in his throat. I looked to what he pointed at.

Standing in the chamber, just out of his reach, was a table of gold. It had a small round top and three ornate, spindly legs—it was little more than a glorified tripod. On top of the table lay a golden key.

I understood at once. This was the key to his cage. He wanted me to let him out.

I looked back at him. I saw in his eyes that he knew I understood. Oh yes, he was human, all right—no beast would have that look of comprehension in its eyes. He looked at me for a long time. Then, giving the cage door a cursory rattle, he sat back down and hugged his knees to his chest. He looked abject, miserable.

I stared at the man, the cage and the key. What was I supposed to do? It would be madness to let him out. He was a wildman. He would attack me the moment I opened the door. The only thing that made sense was to walk away.

But how was that claiming my womanhood? If I already possessed the 'Power of the Feminine' as the Priestess had said, just leaving things as they were seemed a pretty poor use of it. How was that powerful? He was only a man, after all, and a pathetic one at that. Here he was locked up in the temple of Aphrodite, the goddess of Love herself—the ultimate in feminine power, surely?

I smiled.

What if this were a test of faith? To open the cage would show that I trusted the power of the Feminine, that I trusted its presence within me. Also, was not my compassion and sympathy part of my womanhood? This man had suffered and I would be the one to relieve that suffering, to show my grace as only a woman can. Did not Beauty tame the Beast? Besides, to leave him locked up would be to admit defeat, to admit inferiority to the Masculine. It would show that I was afraid of him and unable to deal with him—insults to my womanhood.

'It's all right,' I said. 'Everything's going to be all right.'

The man looked up at me. He looked sad, as though he had heard that before.

'You wouldn't hurt me, would you?' I said.

The man shook his head. He let out a sigh and stared at the floor.

I picked up the key and walked to the cage. I felt calm and strong. I inserted the key in the lock and turned it. There was a loud click.

The cage door smashed into my face. I felt my nose break and blood gushed out of my nostrils onto my white dress. I staggered backwards in terror, hardly able to believe the speed of his reactions. With a roar of triumph, the Wildman leapt straight towards me and I saw with a terrible clarity that his dark brown penis was fully erect. My God, I was going to be raped!

'Help! Help!' I cried, flailing my arms at him. It was useless. He grabbed my wrist and hurled me across the room. I spun into one of the iron braziers and sent it toppling over, spilling glowing coal onto the floor. The Wildman jumped on me and tore my dress to pieces. Choking on his stink, I tried to get my knees up hard between his legs, but I could hardly move. I felt his breath on my face and a stringy drop of his saliva splashed onto my cheek. Retching in disgust, I reached out, grabbed a chunk of burning coal and dashed it into his face, screaming at the pain in my hand.

The Wildman shrieked and scrambled off, howling with rage. Dropping the coal from my raw and blistering hand, I jumped up and ran for the tapestry. The Wildman grabbed the remnants of my dress and for a horrible moment I thought I was caught. Then the dress ripped itself apart and I ran naked through the entrance.

'Help! Help!' I screamed as I ran. I pushed over one of the braziers in the courtyard as I ran through and hurtled down the steps into the night. I heard the Wildman scream—he must have stepped on the coals I had just spilled. Good. It might slow him down.

I tore down the hill, my feet pounding on the grass. When I reached the trees I ran straight in, taking the route I had walked with the other Charlene about a million years ago. Where the hell was the Priestess? Where was Aphrodite? How could she permit this to happen inside her own temple? I ran out of the trees and skidded to a stop as I was confronted with the lake. I went to head down the bank when I turned and saw the Wildman leap through the woods and come to a halt a few metres away. There was a raw burn mark on his cheek, but the bastard was grinning. He knew he had me—I could see it.

'I set you free!' I screamed at him. 'You should be grateful!'

The Wildman took a step forward, enjoying the sport. I moved to the right; he moved to block me, zigzagging closer. I dared not go into the water. This bastard would drown me, I knew that for sure. Why? Why?

'I set you free!' I sobbed. 'I set you free!'

The Wildman ran forward and grabbed my arm. I hit him with my free hand, but it was my burnt hand and I cried out in pain. He threw me to the ground, into the mud by the water's edge, and jumped on me, pinning my arms deep into the brown ooze. I tried to kick out with my legs, but he was on top of me and all I did was slither around under him. Any second now that disgusting cock of his would be pushed into my vagina—a vagina I had only just started to really love—and I would never again be able to make love without feeling the memory of that repulsive thing between my legs.

Suddenly, the Wildman jerked, his whole body stiffening. He was silent, still, his weight pressed upon me. It was eerie. Then, slowly, he rolled off me and a long rattling breath came out of his body, followed by blood. There was an axe imbedded in his back.

'Are you all right?' said the Priestess.

I stared down at my body. There was a sticky mess on my stomach that was not mud. I screamed and ran to the water, splashing and flailing, mad with the need to wash that stuff off me. I was crazy, possessed by the frantic desire to be clean. The water stung my injured hand, but I didn't care. Pain was preferable.

'Are you all right?' repeated the Priestess.

I stood knee-deep in water, my arms covered with blood and mud, and I stared at her. The Priestess stood serene in her white robe, beautiful and untouched. The sight infuriated me.

'No, I'm not all right!' I shouted at her. 'I'm extremely far from all right! What the hell was _**that**_ all about?!' I pointed an accusing finger at the body of the Wildman. Now that he was dead, he looked small and pathetic. The Priestess looked at him.

'Why did you unlock the cage?' she said.

'What?'

'Why did you unlock the cage?'

'Wasn't that what I was supposed to do?'

'Said who?'

I stared at the Priestess, my mouth wide open.

'You mean, I was supposed to _**leave**_ him there?'

'He was clearly dangerous,' said the Priestess. 'You knew that the moment you saw him, surely?'

'But ... you said I had the power of the Feminine! You made a point of telling me!'

'Yes, I did,' said the Priestess. 'And it's still true. You do possess the power of the Feminine.'

'Well, it was no fucking use _**here**_, was it?' I shouted.

'That is also true.'

The Priestess looked down at the dead Wildman with an expression that looked suspiciously like regret. Then she faced me again.

'Well,' she said. 'Now you know.'

She turned and began to walk away.

'Hey! Wait a minute!' I splashed through the water to catch up with her. The Priestess continued to walk and I shouted after her. 'Do you mean I went through all this just to find out what feminine power is _**not?**_'

'Yes,' said the Priestess, not turning, still walking.

'Stop walking, you bitch!' I screamed.

The Priestess stopped and waited, her face grave, as I caught up with her. Being so close, I realised that I didn't know what to say. The blisters on my hand and the throbbing in my face were beginning to really hurt. The Priestess waited patiently.

'You set me up,' I said finally. 'I would never have let that thing out of his cage if you hadn't given me that speech beforehand.'

'Perhaps. That still doesn't explain why you unlocked the cage.'

'Because I trusted you! I trusted you.'

'And I was there when you needed me. It's not you with an axe in your back, is it?'

'That's not the point!'

I was on the verge of tears. The Priestess came up to me and laid her hands on my arms. 'Charley, listen to me. Right now, you are sitting in your favourite coffee house writing out this whole encounter in a journal. You really have nothing to cry about. There are women in your world who have experienced this for real. In fact, don't you privately judge such women as 'stupid'?'

I stared up at her.

'Fuck you,' I said. 'Fuck you!'

The Priestess gave me a pat on the arm and walked away. As she disappeared through the trees, I stood and screamed at her.

'Fuck you _**and**_ Aphrodite! I'm not coming back, do you hear? I'm never coming back!'

* * *

Charley stopped writing.

She felt exhausted and wondered if she was, perhaps, sick in her mind. All that stuff had come out of her head and she did not like it. She closed the journal and reached over the table for a newspaper, looking to distract herself. It was turned to the TV guide and there was a picture from a movie—a slim Hollywood actress playing a ninja assassin was fighting three burly men and winning. Charley had seen the film and knew how it went.

She threw the newspaper aside in disgust.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: The Wildman**

That evening, Charley dressed to go out. She tried various combinations and settled on a skirt, tights and fabric boots—all black—with a white blouse whose sleeves ballooned out from the shoulders and tightened again at the cuffs. A black velvet waistcoat embroidered with coloured beads completed the ensemble. She had bought it at a bazaar during a holiday in Morocco and, wearing it, she felt good—sexy and slightly bohemian. Although the evening was warm, Charley wore her long, black winter coat. She chose a small bag slung over her shoulder and then she shut the door of her apartment block and began the twenty-five minute walk into town.

She had reached the point where the residential homes turned into shops, restaurants and bars when her mobile phone rang. She retrieved it from her bag and clicked it on.

'Hi Barbie,' she said.

'Charles!' Barbie's voice sounded urgent, almost panicked, but there was a lot of background noise.

'Speak up!' said Charley.

'Can't...' There was more noise. Charley heard the name of a pub and the words 'rescue me.'

'Barbie, I'm coming!' said Charley. 'I'm coming, all right?'

The phone went dead. Hells-bells, thought Charley, what's Barbie done _**this**_ time? She picked up the pace and walked quickly to the pub, arriving in just over ten minutes.

As soon as Charley walked in she wanted to walk out again. The pub was heaving with men—the sort of men who gathered to watch football matches and pour lager down their throats. Scanning the bar, she saw maybe four or five other women and then caught sight of Barbie waving desperately from a barstool. One look and Charley understood her predicament.

There were two men with Barbie—one guy talking, the other laughing. The laughing one had a shiny forehead and large protruding teeth, but he seemed unpleasant rather than dangerous. It was the big guy who rang warning bells in Charley's head. He had a raw, pink jaw, cropped blond hair and an ironed white shirt, but with the look of an animal in clothes. He towered over Barbie, his chest pushed out towards her, and he jabbed with his pint glass as he spoke.

Charley took a deep breath and walked forwards. Although it was stifling hot, she did not undo her coat. Barbie jumped off her barstool, pulling down the hem of her too-short skirt, and began babbling to the big guy without a word of greeting to Charley.

'This is the friend I was telling you about. The one I was meeting. This is her. I really have to go now.'

'You haven't finished your drink,' said the big guy.

Barbie looked at the half-full glass of wine spritzer in her hand as though she just noticed it.

'Well...'

'Finish your drink,' said the big guy. 'And maybe your friend would like one too?' He turned to Charley. His eyes were pale and dead, like a shark's.

'No, thank you,' said Charley.

'I'm inviting you for a friendly drink,' said the big guy. 'You do want to be friendly, don't you?'

Holy shit, thought Charley. Holy fucking shit.

'Yes,' she said. 'I don't want to be unfriendly.'

'Good girl,' said the big guy. 'That shows manners. So what do you want to drink?'

'Do you mind if I ask your name first?' said Charley.

The big guy smiled as though this conversation was going in the right direction.

'It's John,' he said. 'What's yours?'

Charley took a deep breath.

'I'm scared to tell you,' she said. 'You're a big guy, John, and the way you talk scares the shit out of me.'

Despite the tumult of the bar—the music, the raised voices—a stillness seemed to fall on this little group of four. Barbie's eyes were wide as saucers. John's friend watched with a smile now crooked and awkward. John looked at Charley like he wanted to kill her.

'You got a problem with the way I talk?' he said.

'John…' said his friend.

'Shut it!'

John fixed his gaze on Charley.

'Or perhaps you got a problem with me?' he said. 'Is that it, girly? Am I not good enough for you?'

A dozen comebacks came into Charley's mind, all of them designed to put this man in his place, but they would only work if he were a civilised man, a man prepared to take defeat from a woman, a man who would not retaliate—or follow her out of the pub and try to get her alone. Maybe she was judging this John unfairly, but Charley was not prepared to take the risk.

'All right, John, you win,' she said.

'What?'

'If you want us to stay and talk to you, we will. And if that means accepting a drink, I usually have Campari and orange. I prefer the juice to be freshly squeezed, but if they only have the carton stuff I won't make a big deal out of it.'

John stared at her and then gave a nasty sort of bark.

'Can you believe this cunt?' he said to his friend. 'She will "stay and talk to us", but only if she can have freshly squeezed orange juice!'

'I thought she said she'd be alright with the carton stuff?'

John shook his head in irritation. He turned to Charley.

'Excuse my friend,' he said. 'He suffers from being a wanker. And as for you, m'lady, you can fuck off. I'm not a fucking drinks machine and I certainly don't need charity when it comes to getting female company. Go take your friend and find some other mug—I wouldn't soil my dick in either one of you.'

Charley lowered her head and took Barbie's arm.

'Come on.'

'But I haven't finished my drink,' said Barbie.

'Fuck the drink! Let's go!'

Barbie pulled her jacket off the barstool and drank the rest of her wine spritzer. 'That's right,' Charley heard John say, 'you squeeze every last drop out of me, you diseased slapper!' Charley clenched her teeth, resisting the urge to retort and almost dragged Barbie towards the exit.

'I've still got my glass!' said Barbie.

Charley snatched it out of her hand and put it on a table, pushing Barbie out in front of her. They almost tumbled out of the pub door into the cool night air. Breathing hard, she looked at Barbie.

'Sorry,' said Barbie, putting her jacket on.

Charley shook her head and shrugged.

'It's not your fault,' she said. She looked over her shoulder at the pub. 'Come on, let's get out of here.'

Charley and Barbie arrived at the wine bar where Barbie's three girlfriends already sat drinking. Barbie regaled them with the story of Big Bad John and how Charley had handled the situation. Karen was not impressed.

'You let him walk all over you,' she said.

'I let him win,' said Charley.

'You let him insult both of you.'

'He was dangerous.'

'And huge,' chipped in Barbie.

'A good kick in the balls would have sorted him out,' said Karen.

'You watch too many movies,' said Charley.

'Yeah and I can't kick anyone in this skirt,' said Barbie.

'You let us down,' said Karen. 'All of us.'

'What are you talking about?' said Charley.

'Every time a woman lets a man degrade her, it takes us all a step away from the respect and equality we're entitled to. I don't blame you for what you did, Charley, but the way Barbie told the story made it sound like you did something amazing.'

'It was amazing!' said Barbie. 'I would have been stuck there if it wasn't for Charles! And you should have seen the guy's face when she told him he scared the shit out of her.'

'I don't see how that constitutes a victory for women,' said Karen.

'This guy thought he was the ultimate lady's man,' said Barbie. 'You could tell that because he combed his hair and ironed his shirt he thought he was irresistible. And Charley completely busted him; took it away from him. I saw it, the guy saw it and even his goofy friend saw it.'

'Great,' said Karen. 'So why didn't you choose that moment to walk away?'

'Because he wouldn't have left it,' said Charley. 'I reckon this guy would have followed us here.'

'So? What could he do?'

There was a general groan. Karen looked around and realised with surprise that Charley and Barbie were not alone in shaking their heads. Charley leant forwards.

'Karen, when you come face to face with a Rottweiler, you do not try to reason with it. You speak softly, you back off slowly and you get the fuck out of there. End of story.'

Karen opened her mouth to retort when one of the other girls spoke up: 'I don't like this subject. Can we please change it?' For the remainder of that evening, none of them spoke of it again.

Charley awoke late the following morning. She yawned, stretched and then saw Barbie sat on the bed looking at her. At first, she thought nothing of it. Barbie had gone to sleep next to her, so it was no surprise that she would wake up next to her. But then Charley saw that Barbie's hair was damp, her face clean of make-up and, apart from her shoes, she was dressed.

'Are you leaving?' said Charley.

'Yeah,' said Barbie. 'Before you throw me out.'

'What?'

'I've done something terrible.'

Charley sat up in bed. Barbie sat sideways, looking down at the duvet cover.

'I woke up during the night,' she said. 'So I went into your living room for a bit. I was looking around for a magazine, just something to distract me, when I came across your journal. It was lying on the table out in the open. Well, I knew I shouldn't have, but I took a peek and there was this story about you facing a Wildman in a cage and I ended up reading it. When I finished, I thought 'Wow!' and wondered if there were any more stories and when I realised that the whole journal was a story about this temple of Aphrodite, I ended up reading it all. I know I should have asked your permission first, but you were asleep and I was awake and I couldn't stop. I felt like it was written for me. I'm sorry, Charles.'

Barbie sat with her head bowed, her hair covering her face. Charley sat staring at the wall, not sure yet what she was feeling. Some instinct was telling her that, despite the Penitent Woman act, Barbie wasn't sorry at all.

'Why are you telling me?' said Charley. 'You could have said nothing and I wouldn't have known.'

'I thought about that possibility.'

'And?'

Barbie straightened up. She pushed her hair out of her face and looked at Charley.

'There was something you wrote that I want to talk about,' she said. 'But if I bring up the subject, you'll know that I read your story. So I want to get that out of the way.'

'Okay.' Charley was guarded, but curious.

'First, are you angry at me for reading your journal?'

'No. I ought to be, but I'm not. I don't know why—when you first told me, I tried to work up some anger and I couldn't. I'm kind of in shock that I wrote something interesting enough that it kept you awake at four in the morning.' She shook her head and touched Barbie's hand. 'Go on, tell me what it is you want to talk about.'

Barbie squeezed Charley's hand and then let it go, placing hers carefully before her as though wanting to distance herself.

'The bit I want to talk about,' she said, 'is where the Priestess accuses you of privately judging other women as stupid. I read that and my mind just went: Yeah. She totally nailed you. I can't think of an instance when you actually said so, but I've often had the feeling you privately thought that about me.'

Charley didn't know what to say. She couldn't deny it. But the longer she stayed quiet, the more she confirmed it.

'Barbara,' said Charley. 'She was talking about women who've been raped.'

'So was I.'

Charley stared. Barbie looked serious and calm, totally unlike her normal self. When she spoke, her voice was measured, quiet.

'It was a blind date,' she said. 'He was the friend of a friend of someone. Single guy. He seemed okay. We had a nice dinner and then he drove me back to his apartment. We kissed in the car and he invited me up for a drink. We started kissing on the couch, but then he ... he got rough. Insistent. I told him to stop and he got angry, really angry. But it wasn't normal anger, more a kind of insanity, rage. I was terrified. He was so out of control that I gave him what he wanted and, when he finished, I just ran out of there and called a taxi from outside.'

There was a long silence. Finally, Charley said: 'When did this happen?'

'Just over a year ago. I've never told anyone this.'

'Did you think of going to the police?'

'It would have been pointless. He hadn't beaten me up or anything. I was scared he would, but he didn't. And I did go into his apartment of my own free will.'

'That's no excuse.'

'I know, but it was pretty stupid of me.'

'Barbie, it wasn't your fault.'

'That's not what your Priestess would say.'

Charley opened her mouth, then closed it again. That was unexpected. Barbie lifted her legs onto the bed and sat cross-legged facing her.

'Be honest, Charles. If I had come running out of that guy's apartment and the Priestess was standing in her white robe waiting for me in the street, what would she have said?'

Charley took a moment to get the Priestess clear in her mind.

'Why did you go into that guy's apartment?' said Charley.

'Exactly.'

'And what would you have replied?'

'I don't know,' said Barbie.

'Did you go up because you liked him?'

'Not really.'

'Did you want sex?'

'No!'

'So why go up?'

Barbie looked across the bed to the window. The curtains were still drawn, but the sunlight came in through the sides.

'I suppose I was trying to put off the alternative,' she said. 'Going home alone … again. To put off that moment when a date turns into yet another dead end. It's so awful to feel you'll never be loved.'

Barbie burst into tears. Charley climbed over the bed, knelt before her friend and wrapped her arms around her. Barbie shifted into the embrace and the two girls held each other as Barbie cried herself out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Barbie**

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite. The sun is setting and the air is warm and still. There is hardly any breeze and the white dress I wear is damp under my arms. It's very different from the stormy weather of my previous visit and I feel comfort in that.

The Priestess sits on the steps leading up to the temple. She lifts a cool hand to show she has seen me, but nothing more. I wonder—and not for the first time—whether this woman actually likes me. I suppose she can't like all her 'students' any more than a teacher can like all his pupils, but still … the thought doesn't feel good. The Priestess tilts her head as if to say: Are you just going to stand there? I go up the steps and sit next to her. Glancing up at the temple building, I notice there is no orange glow from behind the pillars.

'Not yet open for business?' I said.

'You're early,' said the Priestess with a shrug.

'How is that even possible?'

'Let's not go into that. You're early because you want to ask me something.'

I let out a sigh and looked at the sun dipping towards the mountains on the horizon.

'So you're a mind-reader,' I said.

'No.'

'Then how do you know what I'm thinking?'

'Ask your friend.'

'Who? Barbie?'

'Yes. She's already figured out who I am.'

I stared at the Priestess. She smiled sadly and looked out at the horizon.

'In March of last year,' she said, 'Barbie invited you out for a meal at a spectacularly average Chinese restaurant. Do you remember?'

'Vaguely.'

'She ate hardly anything and, despite talking non-stop, stayed off the subject of boyfriends.'

'Wow. The food must have been average.'

'At the end of the meal, the waiter brought over some heart-shaped fortune cookies left over from Valentine's Day and Barbie disappeared into the toilet for ten minutes.'

'Yes, I remember. She was sick.'

'She was crying. That dinner was the first time she saw you after she'd gone up to that guy's apartment.'

My eyes must have been as big as saucers. I couldn't speak. But in my mind, the memory of that dinner and pieces of conversation with Barbie all slotted together, made a complete picture. The Priestess was right. But…

'How can you know this?' I said. 'You're a character in a story I'm writing and yet you know things I don't.'

'First: You did know something was wrong. But you were distracted by other thoughts—mostly your opinions about the quality of Chinese food—which blocked it out. Second: I'm not just a character in a story.'

'All right, sorry! You're the priestess of the goddess Aphrodite.'

'I'm not. That's the point.'

'You're not Her priestess?'

'No. I'm _**your**_ Priestess.'

'But I'm not a goddess!'

The Priestess stood.

'Ask your friend who I am,' she said. 'And tell her I said so. She'll like that.'

'You going?'

'It's not time for the sixth chamber. I'll let you know when it is.'

The Priestess turned and ran up the steps, disappearing into the darkness between the pillars.

* * *

Charley looked up from her writing. She was settled into her favourite spot in the coffee house; there was still coffee in her mug and she was in the writing mood, dammit. She sighed and closed the journal, finished the coffee and picked up her mobile phone.

Barbie lived in a quiet street around the back of an old church. The houses used to belong to the well-to-do in the days when people travelled by coach and horses, but they had fallen into disrepair. The council bought half of them up and turned them into student accommodation which they remained for some years. Then a new council were voted in whose desire for affordable student housing was not as urgent as its desire to show money on the books. The houses were sold off to individual landlords who did the minimum of restoration work and then acquired tenants who paid a considerably higher rent.

Barbie had the rooms on the top floor of one of these houses. She was fortunate in that she had her own toilet and bathroom, although she shared the kitchen and dining room with the other tenants. There was only one doorbell, so Barbie asked Charley to give her a call if she visited, 'unless you want to see Freaky Frank in his dressing gown,' she said. Charley always called.

She stood before the house now and looked at the front door. It had a stained glass window probably older than her parents which depicted an apple tree in a garden and, from behind it, Charley could hear the growing thumpity-thump of feet on a staircase. A shape grew through the glass, the door opened and Barbie was stood in front of her. Charley stared.

'You're wearing trousers!' she said.

'Oh yes!,' said Barbie, turning to pat her ass. 'Do you like them?'

'I do, yes!'

They were light pink denim jeans and, in place of high heels, Barbie wore simple white trainers. She looked bouncy and sporty; the sort of girl who plays football in the park. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and Charley realised that Barbie really was an attractive girl, whereas before she gave the impression of being an average-looking girl who tried to look pretty.

'Barbie, you look great. I mean it.'

'Thanks. Oh, did you notice the snake?'

'What snake?'

Barbie tapped the glass on the front door. In the apple tree was a sort of yellow blob.

'That's a snake?' said Charley.

'Of course. Welcome to the Garden of Eden!'

Barbie jumped back, standing by the open door and waving Charley in like a butler. Charley entered, Barbie closed the door and they went upstairs.

Barbie's apartment was smaller and warmer than Charley's. She had stuck photos and brightly coloured pictures on the wooden beams and the sloping roof wall was also plastered with posters and print-outs. The furniture was painted white and splashed with coloured cushions, cloths and knick-knacks. Near the window stood an electric kettle on a shelf.

'I have either herbal tea or instant coffee,' said Barbie. 'Or we could go downstairs to the kitchen where the selection is wider. We might even see Frank.'

'Herbal tea is fine.'

'Rosehip?'

'Lovely.'

Barbie switched on the kettle, then took some carrier bags off the couch so Charley could sit.

'You been shopping?' said Charley.

'Oh yes.'

Barbie emptied the bags which contained jeans, flat-soled shoes, pumps and a red summer dress with white circles.

'My sister picked that one out,' said Barbie as she handed Charley her tea and sat down. 'She's wanted to change my wardrobe for ages.'

Charley sipped her tea, not wanting to say anything. Barbie smiled as she settled herself on the couch next to her.

'Yeah, yeah … her and the rest of the world.' Barbie smiled. 'This is your fault, you know.'

'Mine?'

'Well, your stories. Have you written anything else, by the way?'

'It's funny you should say that.'

Charley stared at the tea in her lap as she told Barbie what the Priestess had said about the dinner at the Chinese restaurant. When she finished, there was a long silence. Barbie sat, drinking tea and gazing at the window. Charley was bursting to break the silence, but some internal voice warned her not to.

'That evening, I came very close to hating you,' said Barbie at last. 'I did hate you in certain moments. You are so much cleverer than I am and I was sort of counting on it.'

'I'm really not that clever, Barbie.'

'Yes, you are. What you said just now proves it. But you also have blind spots—I realise that now. And you know what? I'm beginning to think that's true of me as well.'

Charley took a sip of tea and nodded. She sighed.

'Barbie. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you at the time.'

'You got there in the end.' Barbie raised her mug. 'Thank you, Priestess.'

'Hmm.'

Barbie lowered her mug.

'All right, Charles, what's going on?'

Charley took a deep breath.

'I keep asking the Priestess who she is,' said Charley. 'And she keeps saying I already know. And I don't. And then, the last time I asked her, she told me to ask _**you.**_'

Barbie stared at Charley, taking it in. Then she threw back her head and laughed. If she hadn't been holding a mug, she would have clapped her hands. Charley looked chagrined.

'She said you'd like that,' she said.

Barbie put her mug on a nearby table and held out her hands.

'Come on, Charles,' she said.

'What?'

'The Aphrodite diary. I know you've brought it with you. Let me read for myself what she says.'

Charley hesitated. But she'd already told Barbie most of it—it seemed a bit pointless to argue privacy now. She took the journal out of her bag and gave it to Barbie. It took her five minutes to read the latest entry and she laughed near the end. She handed the journal back to Charley and then took off her trainers so she could sit cross-legged on the couch facing Charley. She wore a big smile and there was a glint of triumph in her eyes. She continued to sit and smile and wait.

'Are you going to say anything?' said Charley.

'It depends,' said Barbie.

'On what?'

'Charles, this is a personal journey for you and the Priestess is a very important part of that journey. She could have just told you who she was, but she hasn't and maybe there's a good reason for that. Maybe you need the mystery.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Look, the problem your main character has is that she thinks she knows how things work when she doesn't. She also assumes that the Priestess is some sort of, I don't know … practitioner of Aphrodite technique. Like she's done a course and now she's qualified to be a priestess for people like the main character.'

'You mean, people like me?'

'No. You're not the main character in the story.'

'I bloody am!'

'Charles, when I first opened that journal, I started reading about a woman standing before a golden cage that contained a Wildman. I had no idea that woman was meant to be you. In fact, I thought you'd based that character on me. The way her mind was coming up with complicated reasons when the obvious was staring her in the face—that's so me. And I thought the end was a metaphor for our friendship: Me stripped naked and nearly raped and you all superior and immaculate and in control after sticking an axe into the guy's back.'

Charley stared at Barbie. Barbie nodded slowly.

'Yes, my dear Charles. The Priestess is you.'


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: The Sixth Chamber**

I stand before the temple of Aphrodite. Night has fallen and the air is cool, but not cold. I look up at the temple and I see an orange glow from within. I climb the temple steps. Entering the courtyard, I see the Priestess standing between the iron braziers. As usual, she shows no emotion upon seeing me. She simply waits for my approach.

'I did as you suggested,' I said.

'I know.'

'Yes. Of course you do.'

The Priestess smiled. 'Although you don't believe it.'

'I do!'

'You accept it here.' The Priestess touched her forehead. 'But you don't yet _**know**_ it. That will take practice.'

'What practice? What do I have to do?'

The smile of the Priestess grew wider. She stretched out her arms and slowly turned on the spot, taking in the surroundings as though she owned them.

'Who am I, Charlene?'

'You are the Priestess.'

'Ah-ah!'

'You're _**my**_ Priestess.'

'Yes! And what is my function?'

The Priestess came to a stop, facing me. Her eyes glittered in the orange firelight and, for the first time since meeting her, I got the sense that she was genuinely enjoying herself.

'To … worship me?' I said.

'Close.' The Priestess stepped up to me and placed her hand over my heart. 'To worship that which is sacred in you.'

I nodded. Slowly, I smiled.

'I like that,' I said. 'I like feeling there's something sacred in me.'

'Quite right too. And my function is to act as guardian to that which is sacred—to see that it is honoured and defended.'

'Even against me?'

'Especially against you. The fact that I'm a separate entity in your psyche should tell you how little you hold yourself to what is sacred. Do you think it's a coincidence that I have rich dark hair and green eyes—traits you envied in other women?'

I looked at her. Yes, she was right. If I could have chosen my own face and body, I would have chosen to look like her. I shook my head feeling slightly ashamed. The Priestess put a hand on my arm.

'You're doing fine,' she said. 'I was worried for a time, but not any more. And right now we have other concerns.'

'Like what?'

'The sixth chamber.'

A chill rushed through my body. I had forgotten about that.

'It's not going to be like last time?' I said.

'It depends. Are you going to honour that which is sacred in you?'

'Of course!'

'Then it should be a walk in the park.'

The Priestess walked me over to the tapestry that depicted Oedipus and the Sphinx. She pushed it aside.

'After you,' she said.

'Are you coming too?'

'Yes, for a moment.'

I felt relief flood me as I stepped through. Once inside, I immediately felt rather silly. There was nothing in the chamber that was even remotely scary—curtains along one wall, a mirror on the other and a bed at the back. Two braziers in the far corners gave off a whitish light. I smiled at the Priestess.

'Don't get cocky,' she said. 'The change will only last until you re-enter the courtyard, but you might still find it uncomfortable.'

'What change?'

'Take a look in the mirror.'

Heart thumping, I went over to the wall mirror and looked. I let out a small shriek. I had put on weight and my face had the pouched look normally reserved for the morning after a heavy night out. I saw faint lines around the eyes and mouth that had not been there before.

'I look like my mother,' I said. I heard the depression in my voice and felt a twinge of guilt. I was always telling my mother how attractive she was. I might even have said that I hoped to look like her when I reached her age. How old was I here?

'Like I said, the change is temporary,' said the Priestess. 'Step out into the courtyard and you will immediately change back.'

'Okay,' I said. 'Okay.'

The Priestess placed a hand on my back and left it a moment as though transferring some of her strength. Then I felt her take her hand away.

'All right,' she said. 'Time for me to go.'

'Must you?'

'You won't need physical protection from the man you're about to meet. Believe me, you're the one with the power here.'

The Priestess walked back to the tapestry and ducked through. It fell back into place and I was alone. I sighed and looked around. What was the bed doing here? I wondered. More sex? With John, I had been the younger woman with the older man—was I now meant to experience the reverse? As I looked at the bed, I realised there was something on it. I went over to take a closer look.

Magazines.

The first one I picked up was called 'Kickbox X-Treme.' The cover had an airbrushed picture of a fighter in midair, his foot connected to the cheek of his opponent. Blood sprayed out of his mouth and his face was twisted in agony and shock. Opening the magazine, I saw this was one of the milder images. A photo of a man screaming on the floor, his leg bent in the wrong direction, was particularly disturbing.

The next magazine was about guns and ballistics. Opening at random, I saw a series of illustrations that showed what different types of bullets did to the human head. The next magazine was about warfare. The next magazine was about horror films. The next magazine was about gory computer games.

'Mum! What are you doing?'

I turned at the sound of the voice, shocked. I was expecting a young man, but the figure running towards me was a boy—fourteen at the most. And what did he just call me?

'Mum, those are mine! You have no right!'

He had taken hold of the magazines and tried to pull them out of my hands. I held fast and it was clear he wouldn't be able to take them by force. I was bigger than him. Makes a change, I thought.

'Get off, Mum! Give them to me!'

'Stop it,' I said. 'Stop it!'

I twisted the magazines out of his hands and held them out of reach. He made a grab for them.

'Do you want me to burn them?' I said.

This took some of the wind out of him. He still wanted to fight me—I saw it on his face—but I also sensed he was assessing his chances. At last, his shoulders slumped and he looked away so I couldn't see how he felt. I lowered the magazines and looked at him.

He was thin with narrow shoulders and short in height—it wasn't likely he would be tall as an adult. He wore a simple white tunic and was in bare feet like me. His hair was tawny-blond and he needed a haircut. Overall, a typical boy of fourteen—well fed, well schooled and ungrateful for both. I looked back at the magazines and shook my head.

'Why do you look at this stuff?' I said.

'Because I like it,' came the voice from under the tawny-blond hair. 'It's cool.'

'Cool? Blood and fighting and killing are "cool"?'

'Yeah.'

The boy wandered over to one of the curtains against the wall. He pulled it back and looked behind it.

'What are you doing?' I said.

'I want to see what's behind it.'

'There's nothing behind it!'

'You don't know that.'

He went to a second curtain and pulled it back.

'Would you stop doing that?' I said.

'Why?'

'Because I want to talk to you.'

'Well. I don't want to talk to you.'

The boy went to a third curtain. I walked to one of the braziers and held a magazine over it.

'You touch that curtain and I drop this in the fire,' I said.

The boy looked at me, his hand outstretched, his thoughts transparent on his face: Is she bluffing? I already knew the answer to that one. I'd wanted to burn these magazines as soon as I saw them. Give me an excuse, I thought. Just give me an excuse. Maybe my expression was as transparent as his because his hand came slowly down. He folded his arms trying to look casual, but behind the hair his eyes were dark with anger.

'What do you want to talk about?' he said.

'This.' I raised the magazine.

'What about it?'

'Why do you have it?'

'I told you! Because it's cool!'

'Well, I find it disgusting.'

'So what? I find your stuff disgusting.'

'What stuff?'

'All those romance books and kissy-kissy magazines and the way you cry when you watch some stupid love story. Now that's totally disgusting!'

I glared at him. How dare he! Okay, I get that a teenage boy is not going to like romantic fiction, but to suggest it was some sort of female equivalent to the twisted battle porn he was reading… I was furious. The boy saw my fury. His arms unfolded.

'You're going to burn them anyway, aren't you?' he said, his voice dull.

'I don't know,' I said. 'I want to do what's right.'

'No, you want to do what's right for _**you!**_ You want a perfect little gentleman so you can show your friends what a great mother you are and I'm spoiling it for you, aren't I? Perfect little gentlemen don't read fight magazines, do they?'

'Son, that's not the reason…'

'Do what you fucking want, mother! Just leave me alone!'

The boy tugged at the third curtain, pulling it away. He looked behind it and then went to the next one. I knew he was no longer satisfying childish curiosity. He was making a point.

I looked at the magazine in my hand. I still hated the sight of it and what it stood for. But what made my skin crawl was the thought that there was a mentality that got off on this material—and that my own son was infected with it. I must have missed something, screwed up somewhere, during his upbringing. But where?

'Hey! A door!'

The boy had pulled back a curtain that did indeed reveal a door. I looked at the wall, frowning. Wasn't this the wall that separated the sixth chamber from the fifth?

'Son, don't go…'

It was already too late. The door was open and the boy had gone through. There was a shout from the next chamber.

'Mum! Look at this!'

I dropped the magazines and ran through. There, just as I remembered it, was the golden cage. It was empty now, the cage door standing open, the golden key in the lock. The boy stood before it in fascination. He heard me enter the chamber and turned, excited.

'Mum, can you see it? Isn't it cool?'

'Get away from it.'

'But Mum…'

'Get away from it!'

I ran forwards, ran with the intention of grabbing the little brat and dragging him by main force from the room. The boy saw me come and ducked into the cage, slamming the door.

'Get out of there!' I cried, frantic with fear.

I grabbed the bars of the door with the intention of pulling it open when I heard a small click. The boy had locked the door and now he stood at the back of the cage, holding up the key and slowly turning it in his fingers. I lunged at him through the bars, but he pressed himself back and stayed just out of reach. I realised that, as long as he stayed alert, I couldn't get him. I took a step backwards and opened my hands.

'Come on, son. Don't do this.'

'Why not? I like being where you can't touch me!'

'That really hurts.'

'Oh, God, here we go. "After all I've done for you!" '

'Son…'

'You don't care about me! You just want me to be a good little boy who does what his mummy tells him! That's all you care about!'

'That's not true.'

'Yes, it is! Every time I do something that I want to do, you do nothing but say how bad it is! I hate you! I hate you!'

I burst into tears. I couldn't help it.

'Oh, great! Now you're crying, just like always! And I'm supposed to say: "Oh, I'm sorry, Mummy! Please don't cry, Mummy! I promise to be good, Mummy!" '

'Shut up!' I screamed. 'Shut up, you ungrateful little monster!'

'No, I won't!' He grabbed the bars and rattled them as he shouted: 'Never ever ever! Never ever ever!' I covered my ears with my hands, tears streaming down my face, as the boy hopped and shouted and rattled the bars. The high pitched shouts and the clanging of metal seemed to get inside my head—it was torture. He wasn't just shouting, he was laughing. The little bastard was laughing! I looked at him and there was glee in his eyes. Then I saw a flash—the flash of something catching the light. An object had fallen from the boy's grasp, bounced on the floor and landed at my feet. I stooped to pick it up.

Suddenly, the noise was no longer inside my head. The boy was still laughing and grinning and hopping madly around, but now I felt almost sorry for him. I sighed, tilted my head to one side and held up the golden key, turning it slowly in my fingers.

The rattling stopped. The boy stared at the key in my hand. He looked at his own hands, looked around at the floor, looked at any place possible that might, just might, reveal that I was holding a fake. But eventually I saw on his face the despair and anger and humiliation of knowing without any doubt that I literally held the key to his freedom. He opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. I raised an eyebrow. He looked away.

'Yes?' I said.

'I won't apologise,' he said. 'I won't.'

'Then you're going to be there for quite a while.'

'You can't keep me here!'

'Wanna bet?'

I turned the key over and over in my fingers. He couldn't take his eyes off it. His face grew redder and redder and it was only a matter of time before he burst.

'Let me out!' he screamed. 'Let me out!'

'When I get an apology.'

'Fuck you! Fuck you, bitch!'

'It seems you need some time to cool down.'

I turned and walked away. The boy shouted and swore and rattled the door, but this time there was panic in the sound. There was a small golden table in the chamber and, as I passed it, I placed the key on the tabletop. The shouts echoed behind me as I walked to the tapestry and went through. The moment it fell into place behind me, the shouting stopped dead. There was silence.

The Priestess stood in the courtyard, tall and white in the firelight. She lifted her hands slowly: Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

'No.'

I turned and ran back through the tapestry. The chamber was empty. Everything—cage, boy, table and key—had disappeared. The only object in the room was a standing mirror where I saw that I was back to my true age. In its reflection I saw the Priestess enter behind me and I whirled around.

'Where is he? Where's the boy?'

'He'll be here,' said the Priestess. 'At the appointed time.'

I stared at her, unable to speak. She walked up to me and smiled.

'Cheer up, Charlene. You had power over him and you used it—that's all. That's what men do to you, right? That's only fair, right?'

'He was a child.'

'But not an innocent. You saw the magazines. He was becoming one of _**them.**_'

'I could have made a difference.'

The Priestess stepped close and put her hands on my arms in a gesture of reassurance. Her voice was soft and low.

'My dear woman, you did make a difference. That is precisely what you did.'

And with that, she turned and walked out of the room.


End file.
